IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


k 


A 


J 


Z 


K, 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


uim  lis 

WUl. 

!IIII18 


1.4 


1 

w 

'1 

/] 


Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WIST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)873-4S03 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


<v 


Tachnical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notas  tachniquae  at  bibliographiquaa 


Tha  Instituta  hat  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  thia 
copy  which  may  ba  bibliographically  uniqua, 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagaa  in  tha 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  changa 
tha  usual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chaclcaci  balow. 


□    Colourad  covars/ 
Couvartura  da  coulaur 


I — I   Covars  damagad/ 


D 


D 
D 
D 
D 


D 


D 


Couvartura  andommagia 


□   Covars  rastorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Couvartura  rastauria  at/ou  palliculAa 


Covar  titia  miaaing/ 

La  titra  da  couvartura  manqua 


Colourad  mapa/ 


I I   Cartas  gtegraphiquaa  w*  coulaur 


Colourad  ink  (i.a.  othar  than  blua  or  black)/ 
Encra  da  coulaur  (i.a.  autra  qua  blaua  ou  noi 

Colourad  platas  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planchaa  at/ou  illuatrationa  un  coulaur 


Bound  with  othar  matarial/ 
Ralii  avac  d'autraa  documants 

Tight  binding  may  causa  shadows  or  distortion 
along  intarior  margin/ 

La  rB  liura  sarria  paut  causar  da  I'ombra  ou  da  la 
diatorsion  la  long  da  la  marga  intiriaura 

Blank  laavas  addad  during  raatoration  may 
appaar  within  tha  taxt.  Whanavar  possibla.  thasa 
hava  baan  omittad  from  filming/ 
II  sa  paut  qua  cartainaa  pagaa  blanchas  ajoutias 
lors  d'una  rastauration  apparaissant  dana  la  taxta. 
mais.  lorsqua  cala  ttait  poaaibla.  eas  pagaa  n'ont 
paa  M  film«as. 

Additional  commants:/ 
Commantairas  supplAmantairas; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm*  la  maillaur  axemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  it*  possibla  da  sa  procurer.  Las  dt'  caiis 
da  cat  axamplaira  qui  sont  paut-*tra  uniqt  «s  du 
point  da  vua  bibliographiqua,  qui  pauvent  modifier 
una  image  reproduite.  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mithoda  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquis  ci-dessous. 


r*n   Coloured  pages/ 


Pagaa  da  coulaur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pagaa  andommagtes 


□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  rastauriaa  at/ou  palliculies 

r~^  Pagaa  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
iJlJ    Pages  dicolories.  tachaties  ou  piquAes 

□Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ditach^s 

r~T^Showthrough/ 
L^   Transparence 

□    Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Qualiti  inigaia  da  I'impression 

□   Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  material  supplimantaira 

□   Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  diaponibia 


n 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc..  have  been  ref limed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Lea  pages  totalament  ou  partiallement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata.  une  pelure. 
etc..  ont  iti  filmies  i  nouveau  da  fapon  A 
obtanir  la  mailleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmi  au  taux  da  rMuction  indiquA  ei-dasaous. 

1QX  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


XX 


y  \^ 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


(ails 

du 
odifiar 

une 
mage 


rrata 

o 


lelura, 


D 

32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

IVhtropolitan  Toronto  Library 
Canadian  History  Department 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quaiity 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmec' 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  Impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — <►  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

IVIaps,  plates,  charts,  etc..  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


1 

2 

3 

L'exempiaire  film*  fut  reproduit  grice  h  la 
gAn^rositA  de: 

IVIetropolitan  Toronto  Library 
Canadian  History  Department 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  Ati  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetA  de  l'exempiaire  film*,  at  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimis  sont  filmis  en  commen^ant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  ia 
dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'Impression  ou  d'illustration,  solt  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  fiimte  en  commenpant  par  la 
premlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'Impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparattra  sur  ia 
dernidre  Image  de  cheque  microfiche,  seion  ie 
cas:  le  symbols  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  ie 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
filmte  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seui  clichA,  ii  est  film*  A  partir 
ds  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  it  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  ie  nombre 
d'Images  nicessalre.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
iliustrent  ia  mithode. 


1 

2 

3 

■  -  4    . 

m 

6 

PIE( 


ASSIST  ' 


■  -  ■  ■  -Jt^^ 

LAN6UAG] 


» • '. 


OBS] 


EADER; 


PIECES  IN  PROSE  AND  VERSE, 

FROM    THE 

BEST  WRITERS; 

'i/-r:^J-':  _\    DESIGNED  TO     ■„,.,•.  ■:', 

ASSIST   YOUNG  PERSONS  TO  READ  WITH  PRO- 
PRIETY AND  EFFECT  J 

r  >     V    i^lMPROVE    THEIR 


\<*^,: 

'^■'r 


LANGUAGE  AND  SEI^ 
MOST  IMPOR' 


Sl^AJip  TO  INCULCATE  THE 
IN CITLES  OF 


PIETY  AJfD  VIRTUE. 


■f"'.    ■.«-^r..     . 


WITH  A  FEW  FRELIMUTART 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  PRINCIPLE^ 


!  ■'3 


•f" 


OF 


GOOD  READING. 


i'^ 


-,   >  11  •) 


■  .    ^  ..•■   • 


BY  LINDLEY  MURJflAY, 


ftft  » 


AUTHOR  OF  AN  ENGLISH  GRAHHr/.R,  &C.  StC. 


.»♦» 


'  ».> 


:»* 


STBRBOTTPED  BT  H.  H  H.  tVALLIS,  MEW*tORKV 


■I       » w 
»    ••    n 

..     «    •>  « 


TORONTO,   U.  C. 
PUBLISHED  BY  £.  LESSLIE  &  SONS, 

1835!* 


'i.";-:.- 


.■>> 


-  *;.  .'■ .  >*"*  .»*f'^4 


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•iii. 


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V        J  J  Wi- 
S.Aug't  a  4  mr 


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*REFA€t:. 


!)  • 


MANY  aelections  of  excellent  matter  have  been  made  for  the  benefit  of 
young  i>erBons.  Performances  of  tliis  kincl  are  of  ao  great  utility,  that  fresh 
productions  of  them,  and  new  attempts  to  Improve  the  young  mind,  will 
scarcely  be  deemed  superfluous,  if  the  writer  makes  his  compilation  instructive 
and  interest'ig,  and  sufficiently  distinct  from  others. 

The  present  work,  as  the  title  expresses,  aims  at  the  attainment  of  three 
objects :  to  improve  youth  in  the  art  of  reading ;  to  meliorate  their  language 
and  sentiments;  and  to  inculcate  some  of  the  most  important  principles  of 
pietv  and  virtue. 

The  pieces  selected,  not  only  give  exercise  to  a  great  variety  of  emstions, 
and  thiB  correspondent  tones  andT variations  of  voice,  but  contain  sentences 
and  members  of  sentences,  which  are  diversified,  proportioned,  and  pointed 
with  accuracy.  Exercises  of  this  nature  are,  it  is  presumed,  well  calculated 
to  teach  yonth  to  read  with  propriety  and  effect  A  selection  of  sentences,  in 
which  variety  and  {uroportion,  with  exact  punctuation,  have  been  carefully 
observed,  in  all  their  parts  as  well  as  with  respect  to  one  another,  Mrill  pro- 
bably^ have  a  nmch  greater  effect,  in  properly  teaching  the  art  of  reading, 
than  is  commonly  imagined.  In  such  constructions,  every  thing  is  accom- 
modated to  the  underst^din^  and  the  voice ;  and  the  common  difficulties  hi 
leamiiu[  to  read  well  are  obviated.  When  the  learner  has  acquired  a  h.-ibit 
of  reading  such  sentences  with  justness  and  facility,  he  will  rciulily  npply 
that  habit,  and  the  improvements  he  has  made,  to  sentences  more  conipUcal<:d 
and  irregular,  and  of  a  construction  entirely  differeut. 

The  language  of  the  pieces  chosen  for  tius  collection  has  been  cirr AiUy 
r^jfurded.  Purity,  propriety,  perspicuity,  and,  in  many  instances,  vilciiui.ce 
of  diction,  distinguish  thein.  They  are  extracted  from  the  woi!:u  of  Ww. 
most  correct  and  elegant  writers.  From  the  sources  whence  the  srutiiriciits 
are  drawn,  the  reader  may  expect  to  find  them  connected  .-tnd  regular,  -ititi- 
ciently  important  and  impressive,  and  divested  of  every  thing  ttmt  is  c-iti:<  r 
trite  or  eccentric.  The  frequent  perusal  of  such  composition  naturiilly  \-.mh 
to  mfn  a  taste  for  this  species  of  excellence,  and  to  produce  a  hubit  of 
..'ictl        ,  and  of  composing,  with  judgment  and  accuracy.'*' 

this  collection  may  also  serve  the  purpose  of  promoting  piety  ami  y  ir- 
I  Compiler  has  introduced  many  extracts,  which  place  reli)2-ion  in  the 

.  (.  iable  light ;  and  which  recommend  a  great  variety  of  moral  duties,  by 

the  excellence  of  their  nature,  and  the  happy  effects  they  produce.  These 
subjects  are  exhibited  in  a  style  and  manner  which  are  calculated  to  arrest 
the  attention  of  youth ;  and  to  make  sti'ong  and  dm'able  impressions  on  theilr 
minds,  f 

The  Compiler  has  been  careful  to  avoid  every  expression  and  sentimerit, 

*  The  learner,  in  his  progress  through  this  volume  and  the  Sequel  to  it,  wi!l 
meet  with  numerous  instances  of  composition,  in  strict  conformity  to  the  rules 
for  promotingperspicuous  and  elegant  writing,  contained  in  thr^  Appendix  to 
the  Authoi^s  English  Grammar.  By  occasionally  examining  th  s  conformity, 
he  will  be  confinned  in  the  utility  of  those  rules ;  and  be  enai  *ed  to  apply 
them  with  ease  and  dexterity. 

It  is  proper  further  to  observe,  that  the  Reader  and  the  Sequel,  besides 
teaebdnff  to  read  accurately,  and  inculcating  many  important  sentiments,  may 
be  concllered  as  auxiliaries  to  the  Author's  English  Grammar ;  as  practical 
illustrations  of  the  principles  and  rules  contained  in  that  woric. 

t  In  some  of  the  pieces,  the  Compiler  has  made  a  few  alterations,  chiefly 
«rh?»l,  *o  %iapt  them  Uie  better  tcHlie  design  of  his  work. 


v^lTiJfe'.    .. 


that  might  gratify  a  corropt  mind,  or,%^  le&M  dcme,  dtea^e  eye  or 
ear  of  innocence.     This  ne  conceirea  im}^  peeuiMiT  jaemumm.  on  every 

CBrson  who  writes  for  the  benefit  of  youth.^t  wooM  indeed  Mr  a  great  and 
appy  improvement  in  education,  if  no  writing*  nere  aUoi|Pld  to  come  under 
their  notice,  but  such  as  are  perfectly  innocent ;  aad  if  «ii  all  proper  occa* 
sions,  thev  were  encouraged  to  peruse  those  which  tend  to  inspire  a  due  re- 
verence for  virtue,  and  an  abhorrence  of  vice,  as  well  as  to  animate  them 
with  sentiments  of  piety  and  goodness.  Such  impressions  deeply  engraven 
on  their  minds,  and  connected  with  all  their  attainments,  could  scarcely  fail 
of  attending  them  through  life,  and  of  producing  a  solidity  of  principle  and 
character,  that  would  l^  able  to  resist  the  danger  arising  fram  future  inter- 
course  with  the  world. 

The  Author  has  ender.voured  to  relieve  the  grave  and  serious  parts  of  hlf 
collection,  bv  the  occassional  admission  of  pieces  wliich  amuse  as  well  a^ 
instruct.  If,  however,  any  of  his  readers  should  think  it  contains  too  great  a 
portion  of  the  former,  it  may  be  some  apology  to  observe,  that  in  the  existinjPf 
publications  designed  for  tlie  perusal  of  youn^  person^  the  preponderance  ii 
greatly  on  the  side  of  gay  and  amusing  productions.  Tt>o  much  attention  mav 
be  paid  to  this  medium  of  improvement.  When  the  imagination,  of  youth 
especially,  is  much  entertained,  the  sober  dictates  of  the  understanding  are 
regarded  with  indifference :  and  the  influence  of  good  afiSectio^is  is  either  fee- 
ble,  or  transient.  A  temperate  use  of  such  entertainment  seems  therefore 
requisite,  to  afford  proper  scope  (or  the  operations  of  the  understanding  and 
the  heart. 

The  reader  will  perceive,  that  the  Compiler  has  been  solicitioos  to  recom- 
mend toyoimg  persons,  the  perusal  of  the  sacred  Scriptures,^y  interspersing 
through  his  work  some  of  the  most  beautiful  and  interesting  passages  of  those 
invaluable  writings.  To  excite  an  early  taste  and  veneration  for  this  great 
rule  of  life,  is  a  point  of  so  high  importance,  as  to  warrant  the  attempt  to  pro- 
mote it  on  every  proper  occasion. 

To  improve  the  young  mind,  ^d  to  afford  some  assistance  to  tutors,  in  tlie 
arduous  and  important  work  of^  education,  were  the  motives  wliich  led  to  ^is 
production,  u  the  author  should  be  so  successful  as  to  accomplish  these 
ends,  even  in  a  small  des^ree,  he  will  think  that  his  time  and  pains  have  been 
well  employed,  and  wilt  deem  himself  amply  rewarded. 


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he  al|«  toffiv*  most  body,  moit  pemevcring  force  of  sound,  to  that  pitoli 
or  voie«,  lo  which  in  oonveipition  we  are  accustomed  Whereas  by 
netting  oM  on  oar  hif hmt  pilch  or  key.  we  ceriaioly  nliow  ournelves  less 
comitali,  and  art  likely  to  strain  our  voice  before  we  have  dono.  We 
shall  fatiffue  ourtelvea,  and  read  with  pain  ;  and  whenever  a  person 
speaks  with  pain  to  bim^^elf,  he  \s  always  heard  with  pain  by  his  audi* 
ence.  Let  iis  therefore  give  the  voice  full  str<  ngth  and  swell  of  sound^ 
but  always  pitch  it  on  our  ordinary  speaking  key.  it  thould  be  a  constant 
rule  never  to  utter  a  ffrealei-  quantity  of  voice  tlian  we  can  afford  without 
pnin  to  oursnlves,  and  without  any  extraordinary  effort.  As  long  as  we 
keep  within  these  bounds,  the  other  organs  of  speech  will  be  at  liberty 
to  discharge  their  several  offices  wi:h  ease;  and  we  shall  always  have 
our  voice  under  command.  But  whenever  we  transgress  these  bounds, 
we  give  up  the  reins,  and  have  no  longer  any  management  of  it  It  is  a 
naoKil  rule  too,  in  order  to  be  well  heard  to  cast  our  eye  on  some  of  the 
most  distant  persons  in  the  company  an  i  to  consider  ourselves  as  read- 
ing to  them.  We  naturally  and  mechanically  utter  our  words  with  such 
a  degree  of  strength,  as  to  make  ourselves  be  heard  by  the  person  whom 
we  address,  provided  he  is  within  the  reach  of  our  vo'ic*?  An  this  is  the 
case  in  convsaertion,  it  will  hold  also  in  reading  to  others.  But  let  us 
remember,  that  in  reading  to  others.  But  let  us  remember,  that  in  read- 
ing, as  well  as  in  conversation  it  is  possible  to  uffend  by  speaking  too 
loud.  This  extreme  hurts  the  ear,  by  making  the  voice  come  upon  it  in 
rumbling,  indistinct  masses. 

By  the  habit  of  reading,  when  young,  in  a  loud  and  vehement  manner, 
the  voice  becomes  fixed  in  a  strained  and  unnatural  key ;  and  is  render- 
ed incapable  of  that  variety  of  elevation  a>)d  depression  which  consti- 
tutes the  true  harmony  of'utterance,  and  afford^  ease  to  the  reader,  and 
pleasure  lo  the  audience  This  unnatural  pitch  of  the  voice  and  disa- 
greeable monotony,  are  most  observable  in  persons  who  were  taught  tor 
read  in  large  rooms ;  who  were  accustomerl  to  stand  at  too  great  a 
distance,  when  reading  to  their  teachers  ;  whono  instructors  were  very 
imperfect  in  their  hearing;  or  v  H^  were  taught  by  persons,  that  consid- 
ered loud  expressions  as  the  chiS'  requisite  in  forming  a  good  reader. 
These  are  circumstances  which  rltmand  tne  serious  attention  of  every 
one  to  whom  the  education  of  youth  is  committed. 

SECTION  ll.—Distinctness, 

IN  the  next  place,  to  being  well  heard  and  clearly  understood,  dis* 
tinctness  of  arti' ulation  contributes  more  han  mere  loudness  of  sound. 
The  quantity  of  sound  necessary  to  fill  even  a  large  space,  is  smaller  thaif 
is  commonly  imagined;  and  with  distinct  articulation,  a  person  with  a 
weak  voice  will  make  it  reach  farther,  than  the  strongest  voic»-  can  reach 
without  it.  To  thisi  therefore,  every  reader  i^ught  to  pay  great  attention. 
He  must  give  every  sound  which  he  utters,  its  due  proportion :  and  make 
every  syllable  and  even  every  letter  in  the  word  which  he  pronounces, 
be  heard  distinctly;  without  slurring,  whispering,  or  suppressing  any  of 
the  proper  sounds. 

An  accurate  knowledge  of  the  simple,  elementary  sounds  of  the  lan« 
guage,  and  a  facility  in  expressing  them,  are  so  necessary  to  distinctness 
of  expression,  that  if  the  learner"s  attainments  are,  in  this  respect,  im* 
perfect,  (and  many  there  are  in  this  situation)  it  will  be  incumbent  on  his 
teacher,  to  carrv  him  back  to  these  primary  articulations ,  and  to  suspend 
his  progress,  till  he  become  perfectly  mat>ter  of  them  It  will  be  in  vain 
to  press  him  forward,  with  the  hope  of  forming  a  good  reader,  if  he  cau" 
not  completely  articulate  every  elementary  sound  of  the  language* 
SECTI<.)N  lU.^Due  deeree  of  Slowness 

IN  order  to  express  ourselves  distinctly,  moderation  is  requisite  with 
regard  to  the  speed  of  pronouncing.  Precipitancy  of  speech  confounds 
all  articulation,  and  all  meaning.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe, 
that  there  may  be  also  an  extreme  on  the  opposite  side.  It  is  obvious 
that  a  lifeless,  drawling  manner  of  readii!^  which  allows  the 
minds  of  the  hearers  to  be  always  outrunnding  the  speaker,  must 
render  every  such  performauce  insiped  and  fatiguing.  But  the 
extreme  of  reading  too  fast  is  much  more  common,  and  requires  the 
more  to  be  guarded  aefiinpt,  heraiTao.  \v\\vn  it  ns  crnwn  into  a  hahit,  fpw 


INTRODUCTrftN. 


i 


-t^^tO%- 


6 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  GOOD  READING 

TO  rend  with  propriety  in  a  pleasintr  and  importunt  nttuimn<;nt ;  prrwluc 
live  ol' iinprovciu-'iit  ootii  to  tlic  undnrHtandinuT  and  the  lietirt.  it  is  f'«rs-nti-!l 
to  a  coinpV.t*:  reader,  t.iHt  he  mi.iut<d>  jKroeivc  tfi';  ideas,  and  (!nt»r  into  llie 
feelings  ol' ^the  author,  wliosv'i  s^Mitiiuonts  [k;  jiroffsscs  to  rf))tat ;  for  how  vn  it 
po8iiii)le  to  represent  clturiy  to  others,  w)i:it  wc  lj;ivc  ImU  faint  or  inaccuraie 
cou:eptiou  of  ourselves  /  \\  tnsMij  ncre  no  otiu-r  i>eiu;tit.s  n-Muitiny;  trojii  the 
art  of  readinjf  well,  timu  tiir  Ktcessity  it  hiys  us  iuidt.r,  of  pruis>  ly  asccrtnin- 
inf^  the  meaning  of  what  Wi;  read  j  Hud  the  Imbit  thtnce  acquir:;d,  of  doing 
this  with  facility,  both  wiicn  rcadinsj  sihntly  and  aloud,  they  would  consti- 
tute -a^sulficientcompcnti  i(ion  Tor  all  tlic  lahmtf  we  can  oestow  upon  t!ie  su'o- 
\\-xS..  But  the  pleasure  d-'rivcd  to  Oiirselvns  and  others,  from  a  clear  coni- 
numicution  of  ideas  and  n;eiin:^s ;  and  t!ie  slroniraud  durable  iinprcii^ions  niado 
thereby  on  the  nunds  ol'tlie  reader  and  the  ^nidienvc,  ar(^  coasidi;r;itions,  wiiich 
give  additional  inj|iortan<;i^  to  the  study  of  tiiis  neeessjry  and  usci'ul  art.  The 
perfect  attainment  of  it  duubtlesis nHpiirf  s a:reat  attention  and  pr  u-tMe,  joined 
to  extraordinary  natiu'al  powers ;  but  as  thi.'re  are  uuuiy  dc^^rces  of  excellence 
in  the  ail,  tJie  student  whoise  aims  fall  siiort  of  perfectiou,  will  find  himself 
amply  rewarded  for  every  exerlion  he  may  think  proper  to  make. 

To  give  rules  for  tiie  raanajrement  of  ihe  voice  in  readiii  ;•,  by  wliicb  the 
necessary  pauses,  emphasis,  ana  tones,  may  be  dis(!oven'^d  and  put  in  prac- 
tice, is  not  possible.  After  all  the  directions  that  can  be  olFered  on  these  poiiits, 
much  will  remiiin  to  be  taught  by  tlie  living  instructer :  much  will  be  attuiuu- 
ble  by  no  otiier  means,  than  the  force  oi  example,  influencing  the  imitative 
powers  of  the  learner.  Some  rules  and  principles  on  these  heads  will,  how- 
ever, be  found  usefid,  to  prevent  erroneous  and  ^^cious  modes  of  utterance  ;  to 
give  the  younf?  reader  some  taste  for  the  subject :  and  to  assist  him  in  ac- 
quiring a  just  and  accurate  mode  of  delivery.  'Ihe  observations  wliich  we 
nave  to  make,  for  these  purposes,  may  be  comprised  under  the  followiifg 
heads :  Proper  l/)udness  of  Voice  ;  Dlstinctnens ;  Slowness ;  Propriety  of 
Prommciatton  ',  Emphasis  ;  Tones  ;  Pauses  ;  and  Mode  <j/'  Utadiug  Verne. 

SECTION  I. 

Proper  Loudness  of  Voice. 
THE  first  attention  of  every  person  who  reads  to  others,  doubtless,  must 
be  to  make  himaelf  heard  by  all  those  to  whom  he  reads.  He  must  endea- 
vour to  fill  with  his  voice,  the  space  occupied  bv  the  company.  This  power 
of  voice,  it  may  be  thought,  is  wiiolly  a  natural  talent.  It  is,  in  a  p'ood  mea- 
sure, the  gift  ol'  nature  ;  but  it  may  receive  considerable  assistance  frain  art. 
Much  depends,  for  this  purpose,  on  tl\e  proper  pitch  and  mauage-aent  of  the 
voice.  Every  person  has  three  pitches  in  his  voice  ;  the  liigh,  the  middle  and 
tiie  low  one  'Fhe  lugh,  is  that  wiuch  he  uses  in  calling  aloud  to  some  per- 
Bon  at  a  distance.  The  low,  is  wlien  he  approaclics  to  a  whisper.  Tiie 
middle,  is  that  wf^ich  he  employs  in  common  conversation,  and  which  he 
should  generally  use  in  reading  to  others.  For  it  is  a  great  mistake,  to  ima- 
gine that  one  must  take  tlie  iughest  piicli  of  his  voice,  in  order  to  be  w>?ll  heard 
in  a  large  company.  Thi?  is  confoundiu'/  two  tilings  which  are  diifercnt, 
loudness  or  strenffth  of  sound,  witli  the  key  or  note  in  which  we  speak.  There 
is  a  variety  of  sound  within  tiie  compass  of  each  key.  A  speaker  may  t}i''.re- 
fore  render  ids  voice  louder,  without  altiring  the  key  ;  and  wc  shall  ahvays 

NOTE.  For  manv  of  the  observations  contained  in  this  preliminary  tract, 
tlie  author  is  iudcbtcd  to  tiic  writings  of  Dr.  Blair,  and  to  the  EncycIupcvUa 
BrJtanuica.  .*. 


i 
^5 


IMTROtVCTiON. 


1 


1; 


errori  art MiisdMeaklpbejMfVocted.  To pronouicc with  a propir  <l«^^rce 
orslowneai^Md  withnWMtfliluur  articulatiou,  i«  urccNHnry  to  br  Mttuti<!d  I  v 
all  whowiahtoMeMMfoodreadcra;  und  it  cutinot  be  too  much  rrromnicoJ- 
ed  to  them.  Swsh  a  (Nroranciation  gives  weip:ht  und  dij^nity  to  the  siihjnjt. 
It  is  a  great  amirtance  to  the  voice,  \vj  the  pauses  and  rests  whieli  it  uHi  wu 
the  reader  more  eanily  to  make  :  and  it  ciiabU:^  the  reader  to  swell  all  hit 
Itoundd,  both  with  more  force  ana  more  harmony. 

•  *      SECTION    IV. 

■■'-  ■  Propriety  of  Prontmcittion,  '* 

AFTER  the  fnndflmental  attentions  to  the  piteli  and  management  «T  the 
voice,  to  distinct  articulation,  and  to  a  proper  decree  of  slownt  hh  of  spoeeh, 
what  the  younf^  reader  must,  in  tlie  next  place,  study,  is  propriety  ( f  pro- 
uunciution ;  or,  giviup^  to  every  woiti  which  he  utlers,  tfiat  bound  which 
the  best  osa^e  of  the  langua^re  appropriates  to  it  'j  in  oppo^iUon  to  broud,  vuU 

gar,  or  nrovmcial  pronunciation.  Tfiis  in  requisite  both  for  reading  intuilii*  i- 
ly,  nna  for  reading  with  correctness  and  oane.  Instnietions  conc(!ri)ii»^r  tfiis 
article  may  be  best  given  by  the  living  teacher.  But  then;  is  one  obsv  rvatioii, 
whicli  it  may  not  be  improper  here  to  make.  In  the  English  lan<iuai  c,  every 
word  which  consists  of  more  syllables  than  one,  has  one  accent i;d  sy  lable.— . 
The  accent  rests  sometimes  on  the  vowel,  sometimes  on  the  eonoonani.  The 
genius  of  the  language  requires  the  voice  to  murk  that  syllable  bv  v  stronger 
)(.rcu:ision,  and  to  pass  more  slightly  over  tlie  rest.  Now.  alter  we  have 
earned  the  proper  seals  ol  these  accents,  it  is  an  important  rule,  to  p  ive  every 
word  juiit  the  sume  accent  in  rerding,  as  in  common  diseonrse.  INIany  pfi-. 
eons  err  in  this  respect.  When  they  read  to  others,  and  wilh  solemnity,  thi  y 
pronounce  the  syllables  in  a  ditfcrnnt  manner  from  wfiat  tltey  do  at  f.tiicr  times. 
f  l»ey  dwell  upon  thrm,  and  protract  them ;  thev  multiply  aecentH  on  the  sMmc 
words ;  from  a  mistaken  notion,  that  it  jrives  vravitv  and  importance  to  tiicir 
tiubject,  and  adds  to  the  energy  of  their  delivery.  Whereas  this  is  one  of  the 
greatest  faults  that  can  be  committed  in  pronunciation  ;  it  makes  w!tat  is  rail- 
ed a  pompous  or  mouthing  manner ;  and  gives  un  artifuual,  aifected  air  to 
reading,  which  detracts  greatly  both  from  its  agreeablencsg  and  its  impr  ssion. 
Sheridan  and  Walker  have  published  dictionaries,  for  ascci-tainingtlie  line 
end  best  pronunciation  of  the  words  of  our  lanjruage.  By  attentively  eon- 
Bultinir  them,  particularly  "  Walker's  Pronouncmg  Dictionary,"  the  yotmg 
reader  will  be  much  assisted  in  his  endtiavours  to  attain  a  coiTcct  prouunciu- 
tion  of  the  woi-ds  belonging  to  the  English  language. 

.,.•■;.•.  .•-.-■-         -       SECTION    V.     ^ 

Emphasis. 

BY  emphasis  is  meant  a  stronger  and  fuller  sound  of  voice,  by  wnicli  we 
jlstinguish  some  word  or  words,  on  which  we  dosi^n  to  lay  particular  stress, 
and  to  sliow  how  tliey  aifeet  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  Sometimes  the  emf>hi)tic 
words  must  be  distinguished  by  a  particular  tone  of  voice,  as  well  ;i8  by  a  par- 
ticular stress.  On  the  right  management  of  the  emphasis  depends  the  life  of 
proatmciation.  If  no  emphasis  be  placed  on  any  words,  not  only  is  discourse 
rendered  heavy  and  lifeless,  but  tlie  meaning  lefi  ollcn  amblj^uous.  If  tha 
emphasis  be  placed  wrong,  we  pervert  and  confound  the  meanmg  wholly. 

Emphasis  may  be  divided  into  the  superior  and  the  inferior  emphasis.  The 
superior  emphasis  determines  the  meaning  of  a  sentence,  with  reference  to 
something  said  before,  pi-esnpposcd  by  the  author  as  general  knowledge,  or 
removes  an  ambiguity,  where  a  passage  may  have  more  senses  than  one.  The 
inferior  emphasis  enjorces^  graces,  and  enlivena^  but  does  not  Jix,  the  mean- 
ing of  any  passage.  The  words  to  wiiich  this  latter  emphasis  is  given,  are  in 
general,  such  as  seem  the  most  important  in  the  sentence,  or  on  otlier  accounts, 
to  merit  this  distinction.  The  following  passage  will  sene  to  exemplify  the 
superior  emphasis. 


"  Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruH' 


■A* 


Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  wo,  &e 
Sing,  heavenly  Muse  I" 
,||uppokUt4t  Utat  originally  otjiter  beings  besides  mm,  had  disubi^ed  the 


•*v- 


INTRODUCTION. 


,       ,   ilMMtMHy  word  if 

'mphaticaJ  :  u«,  "  Vo  hills  and  dale*,  ye  rivert.  woM^  %^  plifan  !'*  or  «■ 
ilmt  p^itlietic  cxp(»8tulutiou  in  the  prophecy  of  Ezokkl,  "Why  will  yc  die  !" 


writing^,  rcprcHCnt  thinf^a,  not  words;  they  ci 
to  the  underatanJing.^* 

Some  fN;ntenceft  ure  no  full  and  compreheniit 
rr 
that. ,  ...  ... 

Kmptians,  besides  itn  other  oHices,  is  the  great  regulator  of  quantity. 
Thou(f  h  the  (pmntity  of  our  syllables  is  fixed,  in  words  separately  pronounced, 
yet  it  iH  ii)nttil)lc,  when  thrne  words  are  arranged  in  sentences  ;  the  long  being 
cliangod  into  Mhoi-t,  the  sliort  into  long,  according  to  the  importance  of  the 
word  with  reuritnl  to  meaning.  Emphasis  altio,  in  particular  cases,  alters  the 
Meat  of  the  .icrcnt.  Thin  is  demonstrable  (Vom  the  following  examples :  "  He 
shall  i/tcrriiN<>,  but  1  ^hall  rfecreuse."  "  Tlicrc  is  a  difference  between  giring 
and  fora'tvitm"  "  in  this  species  of  composition,  p/aiMibility  is  much  moro 
eNwntiiil  tlitiii  ;>robnhitity."  In  thcHC  examoles,  the  eniphusiH  requires  the 
accent  in  lie  placed  on  nyllabloa  to  wliich  it  aoes  not  conunonly  belong. 

In  oitlcr  to  ac(|uii-c  the  proper  management  of  the  emphasis,  the  great  rule 
to  be  giv(;n  is,  that  the  reader  btudy  to  attain  a  just  conception  of  the  force  and 
spirit  of  the  8«<ntimKnts  whicli  he  is  to  pronounce.  For  to  lay  the  emphasis 
with  exact  propriety^  i4  u  constant  exercise  of  good  sense  ana  attention.  It 
is  far  from  bo.iin!  an  mconnidcrable  attainment.  It  is  one  of  the  most  decisive 
trials  of  a  true  and  judt  taste ;  and  must  arise  from  feeling  delicately  ourseWcs^ 
and  from  judging  accurately  of  what  is  fittest  to  strike  me  feelings  of  others. 

There  is  one  error,  against  which  it  is  particularly  proper  to  caution  tho 
learner  ;  namely,  that  of  multiplying  emphatical  words  too  much,  and  uaing 
the  cmphHsis  iniliscriminately.  It  is  only  by  a  prudent  reserve  and  distinction 
in  the  use  of  them,  that  we  can  give  them  anv  weight.  If  thev  recur  too  often ; 
If  a  reader  attempts  to  render  every  thing  lie  expresses,  of  nigh  importajice, 
by  a  multitude  of  slron<;  eraphtuiis,  we  soon  earn  to  pay  little  regard  to  them. 
To  crowd  every  sentence  with  cmphatica  words,  is  like  crowding  all  the 
pages  of  a  book  with  Italic  characters :  wiich,  as  to  the  effect,  is  just  the 
same  as  to  use  no  such  distinctions  at  all. 

SECTION   VI. 

Tones. 

.  TONES  are  different  both  from  emphasis  and  pauses  ;  consisting  in  the 
notes  or  variations  of  sound  which  we  employ,  in  the  expression  of  our  sen- 
timents. Emphasis  aft'ccts  particular  words  ond  phrases,  with  a  degree  of 
tone,  or  inflexion  of  voice  ;  but  tones,  peculiarly  so  called,  affect  sentences, 
pnraj^raplis,  and  some  limes  the  whole  of  a  discourse. 

To  s!iow  tlie  use  and  necessity  of  tones,  we  need  only  observe,  that  the 
mind,  in  communicating  its  ideas,  is  in  a  constant  state  of  activity,  emotior 
Q  Station,  from  the  different  effects  which  those  ideas  produce  in  the  speak  /. 
Now  the  ond  of  such  communication  being  not  merely  to  lay  open  the  ideas, 
but  also  the  different  feelings  which  they  excite  in  him  who  utters  them,  there 
must  be  other  siiifns  than  words,  to  manifest  those  feelings ;  as  words  uttered 
in  a  monotonous  manner  can  represent  only  a  similar  state  of  mind,  perfectly 
free  from  all  activity  and  emotion.  As  the  communication  of  these  internal 
feelings  was  of  much  more  consequence  in  our  social  intercourse,  than  the 
mere  conveyance  of  ideas,  the  Auttior  of  our  being  did  not,  as  in  tiiat  con- 
veyance, leave  the  invention  of  the  language  of  emotion  to  man :  but  ira* 
pressed  it  himself  upon  our  nature,  in  the  same  manner  as  he  has  done  with 
regard  to  the  rest  of  the  animal  world ;  all  of  which  express  their  various 


liar  tone,  or  note  of  the  voice,  by  wliich  it  is  to  be  expressed ;  and  whieh  is  suit- 
ed exactly  to  tlic  dej'ree  of  internal  feeling.  It  is  chiefly  in  the  proper  uscof 
these  tones,  that  the  life,  spirit,  beauty,  and  harmony  of  delivery  consist. 

The  limits  of  this  intioduction  do  not  admit  of  examples,  to  illustrate  the 
variety  of  tones  bclon<>in^  to  the  different  passions  and  emotions.  We  shaU, 
however,  select  oiwi,  wliich  is  extracted  from  the  beautiful  lamentation  of 


*»j 


INTROiyUCTlON. 


0 


not  in  the  itNetf  of  iUfcelon  ;  lest  the  daiiffhtf  ri  of  the  Philistinofl  rf>joice  ; 
Icit  the  dftughlen  ef  the  unctrcumr iscd  triuinpli.  Ye  niountainR  of  CJilboii, 
let  there  be  no  dew  nor  rain  upon  you,  nor  ficIdH  of  ofrorin^rH  •  for  tht^re  the 
lihield  of  the  mighty  was  vilciv  castHwav  ;  the  shield  of  Siuil,  as  thouprh  he 
liad  not  been  anointed  with  oil."  The  nrst  of  thcsie  divisions,  exprcwitN  iKti<- 
row  and  lamentation :  thereforo  the  note  is  low.  The  next  contains  a  spirttt  d 
command,  and  siioula  bn  pronounced  much  higher  Ttie  otlicr  sf  nteuco,  in 
whicli  he  makes  a  pathetic  address  to  the  mountains  wIk  re  \m  frirndti  hnd 
been  llain,  must  be  expressed  in  a  note  quite  diiforent  from  tlic  two  lormt-r : 
not  HO  low  <is  the  first,  nor  so  high  as  the  second,  but  in  a  manly,  firm,  ana 
yetplaintive  tone. 

The  correct  and  natural  language  of  the  emotions  is  not  ho  difficult  to  be  ot- 
taincd  as  roost  readers  icem  to  imagine.  If  we  entfr  into  the  spirit  of  the  nu- 
tlior's  sentiments,  as  well  as  into  tiie  meaning  of  his  words,  we  shall  not  full 
1o  deliver  the  words  in  proper1)r  varied  tones.  For  there  are  few  ))f  ople,  wUo 
speuk  En^ish  without  a  provincial  note,  that  have  not  an  acctu'atc  uso  oi 
tones,  when  they  utter  their  sentiments  in  earnest  discoui-se.  And  the  rt^ason 
that  they  have  not  the  same  use  of  them  in  reading  alotid  the  sentiments  of 
others,  may  be  traeed  to  the  very  defective  and  erroneous  method  in  whicii 
the  art  of  reading  is  taught ;  whereby  all  the  various,  naturalj  expn'^sive 
tones  of  speech  are  suppressed ;  and  a  few  artificial,  unmeanug  reading 
notes,  are  substituted  for  them. 

But  when  we  recommend  to  readers,  an  attention  to  the  tone  and  language 
of  emotions,  we  must  be  understood  to  do  it  with  proper  limitation.  M«>dera- 
tion  is  necessary  in  this  point,  as  it  is  in  other  things.  For  when  the  reading 
becomes  strictly  imitative,  it  asumes  a  thcati'icul  manner,  and  must  be  high- 
ly improper,  as'  well  as  give  offence  to  the  hearers  ;  because  it  is  inconsistent 
with  that  delicacy  and  modesty  which  are  indispensable  on  such  occasions.^ 
The  speaker  who  delivers  his  own  emotions,  rau^t  be  supposed  to  be  more' 
vivid  and  animated  than  would  be  proper  in  the  person  who  relates  them  at 
second  hand. 

We  shall  conclude  this  section  with  the  following  rule  for  the  tones  that 
indicate  the  passions  and  emotions :  "  In  reading;,  let  all  your  tones  of  ex- 
pression  be  borrowed  from  those  of  common  speech,  but|  in  some'def^ec, 
more  faintly  characterized.  Let  those  tones  which  signify  any  disagreeable 
passion  of  the  mind,  be  still  more  faint  than  those  which  indicate  agreeable 
emotions :  and  on  all  occasions  oreserve  yourselves  from  being  so  far  aifected 
with  the  subject,  as  to  be  unable  to  proceed  tlirongh  it,  with  that  easy  and 
masterly  manner,  which  has  its  good  effects  in  this,  as  well  as  in  every  other 
art." 

SECTION  VII. 

Pauses,    • 

PAUSES,  or  rests,  in  speaking  or  reading,  are  a  total  cessation  of  the  voice, 
during  a  preceptible,  and,  in  many  cases,  a  measurable  space  of  time. 
Pauses  are  equally  necessary  to  the  speaker  and  the  hearer.  To  the  speak- 
er, that  he  may  take  breath,  without  which  he  cannot  proceed  far  in  delive- 
rv  ;  and  that  he  may,  by  these  temporary  rests,  relieve  the  organs  of  speech 
which  otherwise  would  be  soon  tired  by  continued  action ;  to  the  hearer,  that 
the  ear,  also,  may  be  relieved  from  the  fatigue  which  it  would  otherwise  endure 
from  a  contmuity  of  sound  ;  and  that  the  understanding  may  have  sufficient 
time  to  mark  the  distinction  of  sentences,  and  their  several  members. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  pauses :  first,  eraphatical  pauses :  and  next,  such  as 
mark  the  distinctions  of  sense.  An  emphatical  pause  is  generally  made  after 
something  has  been  said  of  peculiar  moment,  and  on  whicn  we  desire  to  fix  t]ie 
Itearer^-s  attention.  Sometimes,  before  such  a  thing  is  said,  we  usher  it  in  witli 
a  pause  of  this  nature.  Such  pi^.u^es  have  the  same  effect  as  a  strong  em- 
phasis ;  and  are  subjec&;i>  the  snme  rules  ;  especially  to  Ihe  caution  of  not 
repeating  them  too  frequently.  For  as  they  excite  uncommon  attention,  and 
of  course  raise  expectation,  if  the  impoi-tauce  of  the  matter  be  not  fully  an- 
swerable to  such  expectation,  they  occasion  disappointment  and  disgust. 

But  the  most  frequent  and  the  principal  use  of  pauses,  is  to  mark  the  divi- 
sions of  the  sense,  and  at  the  aamc  time  to  allow  the  reader  to  draw  his  breath  , 
and  the  proper  hiuI  dellcutc  adjustment  of  such  pauses,  is  one  of  the  most  nice 


10 


w 


INTRODUCTION. 


and  difficult  articles  of  delivery.  In  all  readings  tli^ifiiltatenMsiit  of  tlie 
breath  requires  a  good  deal  of  care,  so  as  not  to  obfige  ui  to  dinde  words  from 
one  anottier,  which  have  so  intimate  a  connexion,  that  they  ou^ht  to  be  pro- 
nounced with  the  same  breath,  and  without  the  least  separation.  Many  a 
sentence  is  miserably  mangled,  and  the  force  of  the  emphasis  totally  lost,  by 
divisions  being  made  in  the  wrong  place.  To  avoid  this,  every  one,  while  he 
is  reading,  should  be  very  careful  to  provide  a  AiU  supply  of  breath  for  what 
he  is  to  utter.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  imagine,  that  the  breath  must  be  drawn 
only  at  the  end  of  a  period,  when  the  voice  is  allowed  to  fall.  It  may  easily 
be  gathered  at  the  intervals  of  the  period,  when  the  voice  is  suspended  only 
for  a  moment ;  and,  by  this  management,  one  mav  always  have  a  sufficient 
stock  for  carrying  on  the  longest  sentence,  without  improper  interruptions. 

Pauses  in  readmg  must  generally  be  formed  upon  the  manner  in  which  we 
utter  ourselves  in  ordinary,  sensible  conversation  ;  and  not  upon  the  stifi' arti- 
ficial manner,  which  is  acquired  from  readin(|[  books  according  to  tlie  common 
punctuation.  It  will  by  no  means  be  sufficient  to  attend  to  the  points  used 
m  printing ;  for  these  are  far  from  marking  all  the  pauses  which  ought  to  be 
made  in  reading.  A  mechanjcal  attention  to  these  resting  places,  has  perhaps 
been  one  cause  of  monotony,  by  leading  the  reader  to  a  similar  tone  at  every 
stop,  and  a  uniform  cadence  at  every  period.  The  primary  use  of  points,  is 
to  assist  the  reader  in  discemingthe  grammatical  construction ;  and  it  is  only 
J         1..    .  .1  ..  ..  ,_x_  ...  •_..-_      On  this  head, 

;reat  attention 
sense;  and 

their  correspondent  times  occasionally  lengthened  beyond  what  is  usual  in 
common  speech. 

To  render  pauses  pleasing  and  e*|.  essive,  they  must  not  only  be  made  in 
the  right  place,  but  also  accompanied  with  a  proper  tone  of  voice,  by  wliich 
the  nature  of  these  pauses  is  intimated,  much  more  than  by  the  length  of  them, 
which  can  seldom  oc  exactly  measured.  Sometimes  it  is  only  a  slight  ana 
simple  suspension  of  voice  that  is  proper ;  sometimes  a  degree  of  cactence  in 
the  voice  is  required;  and  sometimes  that  peculiar  tone  and  cadence  which 
denote  the  sentence  to  be  finished.  In  all  these  cases,  we  are  to  regulate  our- 
selves bv  attending  to  the  manner  in  which  nature  teaches  us  to  speak,  when 
engaged  in  real  and  earnest  discourse  with  others.  The  foUowing  sentence 
exemplifies  the  suspending  and  the  closing  pa.uae» :  "  Hope,  the  balm  of  life, 
soothes  us  under  every  misfortune."  The  nrst  and  second  pauses  are  accom- 
panied by  an  inflection  of  voice,  that  gives  the  hearer  an  expectation  of  some- 
thing further  to  complete  the  sense :  the  inflection  attending  the  third  pause 
si^niiitis  that  the  sense  is  completed. 

The  preceding  example  is  an  illustration  of  the  suspending  pause,  in  its 
simple  state:  the  following  instance  exhibits  that  pause  with  a  degree  of  ca- 
duricti  in  the  voice :  "If  content  cannot  remove  the  disquietudes  of  mankind, 
it  will  at  least  alleviate  them." 

Th)e  suspending  pause  is  often,  in  the  same  sentence,  attended  with  both 
t)ie  riKing  and  the  falling  inflection  of  voice ;  as  will  be  seen  in  this  example : 
"  Moderate exercise\  and  habitual  temperance',  strengthen  the  constitution."'*' 

As  the  suspending  pause  may  be  thus  attended  with  both  the  rising  and  the  faU^ 
ing  inflection,  it  is  the  same  with  regard  to  the  closing  pause:  it  admits  of  boUi. 
The  failinff  inflection  generally  accompanies  it ;  but  it  is  notunfrequently  con> 
nected  with  the  rising  inflection.  Interrogative  sentences,  for  instance,  are  oilen 
terminated  in  this  manner :  as,  "Am  I  ungrateful'?"  "Is  he  in  earnest^  ?" 

Bui  where  a  sentence  is  begun  by  an  interrogative  pronoun  or  adverb,  it  is 
commonly  terminated  by  the  Tailing  inflection :  as,  "What  has  he  gained  by 
his  folly^ ?"  "  Who  will  assist  him^7"  "  Where  is  the  messenger^  1^  "When 
did  ^e  "arrive^  ?" 

When  two  questions  are  united  in  one  sentence,  and  connected  by  the  con- 
junction or  J  the  first  takes  the  rising,  the  second  ^e  falling  inflection:  as. 
"  Does  his  conduct  support  discipline',  or  destroy  it^  ?" 

The  rising  and  falling  inflections  must  not  be  confounded  with  emphasis. 


*  The  rising  inflection  is  denoted  by  the  acute ;  the  falling,  by  the  grave  accent; 


^r^V*^*" 


INTRODUCTION. 


li 


^Though  thef  mur  i^lMft  coincide,  they  arc,  in  their  nature,  perfectly  distinct. 
£im)ha8i8  sommnBea  controls  thoi^e  inHections. 

The  regular  application  of  the  rising  anil  falling  inHcetions,  confers  so  much 
beauty  on  expression,  and  is  so  necessary  to  be  studied  by  the  young  reader, 
that  we  shiilf  insert  a  few  more  examples,  to  induce  him  to  pay  greater  at* 
Icntion  to  tlic  subject.  In  these  instances,  all  the  inflections  are  not  marked. 
Such  only  are  distingi«is}ied,  as  are  most  striking,  and  will  best  serve  to  sliow 
tlie  reader  their  utility  and  importance. 

"  Manufactures\  trade\  ana  agriculture',  certainly  employ  more  than  nine- 
teen parts  in  twenty  of  the  human  species." 

"  He  who  resigns  the  world,  has  no  temptation  to  envy',  hatred\  malice\ 
anger' ;  but  is  in  constant  possession  of  a  serene  mind ;  he  who  follows  the 
pleasures  of  it,  which  are,  in  their  very  nature,  disappointing,  is  in  constant 
search  of  care\  solicitude',  remorse',  and  confusion^" 

"  To  advise  the  iguorant\  relieve  the  needy\  comfort  the  afflicted',  arc  du- 
ties that  fall  in  our  way  almost  every  day  of  our  lives." 

"  Those  evil  spirits,  who,  by  lonjr  custom,  have  contracted  in  the  body  ha- 
bits of  lust'  and  sensuality^ ;  malice',  and  revenfje^ ;  an  aversion  to  evciy 
tiling  that  is  goud\  just',  and  laudable ,  are  naturally  seasoned  and  prepared 
for  pain  and  misery." 

''  I  am  persuaded,  that  neither  death',  nor  life^ ;  nor  angels',  nor  principali- 
ties', nor  powei-s^ ;  nor  things  present ,  nor  tilings  to  coiae^ ;  nor  height',  nor 
depth^ ;  nor  any  other  creature',  shall  be  able  to  separate  us  from  the  love 
of  God\» 

The  reader  who  would  wish  to  see  a  minute  and  ingenious  investigation  of 
the  nature  of  these  inflections,  and  the  rules  by  whicii  triey  are  goveiiied,  may 
consult  Walker's  Elements  of  Elocution. 

SECTION  VIII. 

Manner  of  reading  Verse. 

WHEN  we  are  reading  verse,  there  is  a  peculiar  difficulty  in  making  the 
paiises  justly.  The  difliculty  arises  from  the  uiclody  of  verse  which  dictates 
to  the  ear  pauses  or  rests  of  its  own ;  and  to  adjust  and  compound  these  pro- 
perly with  the  pauses  of  the  sense,  so  as  neither  to  hurt  the  ear,  nor  ottend 
the  understanding,  is  so  very  nice  a  matter,  that  it  is  no  wonder'  we  so 
seldom  meet  with  good  readers  of  poetry.  There  are  two  kinds  of  pauses 
that  belong  to  the  melody  of  verse :  one  is  the  pause  at  the  end  of  the  line  ; 
and  the  other,  the  caesural  pause  in  or  near  the  middle  of  it.  With  regard  to 
the  pause  at  the  end  of  the  line,  which  marks  that  strain  or  verse  to  be  finish-^ 
ed,  rhyme  renders  this  always  sensible  ;  and  in  some  noeasure  compels  us  to 
observe  it  in  om'  pronunciation.  In  respect  to  blank  verse,  we  ougnt  also  to 
read  it  so  as  to  make  every  line  sensible  to  the  ear ;  for,  what  is  the  use  of 
melody,  or  for  what  end  has  the  poet  composed  in  verse,  if,  in  reading  his 
lines,  we  suppress  his  numbers,  by  omitting  the  final  pause ;  and  degrade 
them,  by  our  pronunciation,  into  mere  prose  r  At  the  same  time  that  we  at- 
tend to  this  pause,  every  appearance  of  sing-song  and  tone,  must  be  carefully 
l^arded  against.  The  close  of  the  line  where  it  makes  no  pause  in  the  mean- 
ing, ought  not  to  be  marked  by  such  atone  as  is  used  in  finishing  a  sentence  ; 
but,  without  either  fall  or  elevation  of  the  voice,  it  should  be  denoted  only 
by  so  slight  a  suspension  of  sound,  as  majr  distinguish  the  passage  from  one 
line  to  another,  without  iinuring  the  meaning. 

The  oth6r  kind  of  meloaious  pause,  is  that  which  falls  somewhere  about  the 
middle  of  the  verse,  and  divides  it  into  two  hemistichs ;  a  pause,  not  so  great  as 
that  which  belongs  to  the  close  of  the  line,  but  still  sensible  to  an  ordinary  ear. 
This,  which  is  called  the  ctesural  pause,  may  fall,  in  English  heroic  verse,  after 
the  4th,  6th,  6th,  or  7th,  syllable  in  the  line.  Where  the  verse  is  so  constnict- 
ed,  that  this  csesural  pause  coincides  with  the  slightest  pause  or  division  in  the 
sense,  the  line  can  be  read  easily  ;  as  in  the  two  furst  verses  of  Pope's  Messiah  : 

"  Ve  nymphs  of  Solyma^^ !  begin  the  song ; 

**  To  heav'nly  theuies^\  sublimer  strains  belong.'' 

But  if  it  should  happen  that  words  which  have  so  strict  and  intimntQ  a  con- 
nexion, as  not  to  bear  even  a  momentary  separation,  are  divided  from  one  ano- 
ther bv  this  cjBHural  pause,  we  then  feci  a  sort  of  stniggle  hrif-^^r^r.,  <•• . 


■^^^- 


12 


INTRODUCTION.. 


■/'■ 


::-- 


■  ^ 


l 


and  the  sound,  which  renders  it  diflicitlt  to  read^lpl  fiAiits  hannomous] y. 
1'he  rule  of  proper  pronunciation  in  such  cases,  is  to  regard  only  the  pause 
which  the  sense  Ibrms ;  and  to  read  the  line  accordingly.  The  neglect  of  the 
csesural  pause  may  make  the  line  sound  somewhat  unharmoniously  ;  but  the 
effect  would  be  much  worse,  if  tlie  sense  were  sacrificed  to  thJ^souud.  For 
instance,  in  the  following  lines  of  Milton : 

"  What  in  me  is  dark, 

"  Illumine  ;  what  is  low,  raise  and  support." 

The  sense  clearly  dictates  tlie  pause  after  i^/umine,  at  the  end  of  the  3d  sylla- 
ble, which  in  reading,  ou^ht  to  be  made  accordingly :  though,  if  the  melody 
only  were  to  be  regarded,  illumine  should  be  connected  with  what  follows,  and 
the  nause  not  made  till  the  fourth  or  sixth  syllable.  So  in  tiie  following  line 
of  dope's  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbutlmot. 

"  I  sit,  with  sad  civility  I  read." 

The  ear  plainly  points  out  the  caesural  pause  as  falling  after  sad^  the  4th  syl" 
lable.  But  it  would  be  very  bad  reading  to  make  any  pause  there,  so  as' to 
separate  sad  and  civility.  Tlie  sense  admits  of  no  other  pause  than  after  the 
second  syllable  sitj  which  therefore  must  be  tlie  only  pause  made  in  reading 
this  part  of  the  sentence. 

There  is  another  mode  of  dividing  some  verses,  by  introducing  what  may 
be  called  demi-caesura.-.,  vhich  require  very  slight  pauses  ;  and  which  the  rea- 
der should  manage  with  j  ..dement,  or  he  will  be  apt  to  fall  into  an  affected 
sing-song  mode  of  pronouncmg  verses  of  this  kind.  The  following  lines  ex- 
emplify the  demi-c«sura : 

"  Warms'  in  the  sun",  refreshes'  in  the  breeze, 
"  Glows'  in  the  stars",  and  blossoms'  in  the  trees  ; 
"  Lives'  through  all  life" ;  extends'  through  all  extent, 
"  Spreads'  undivided",  operates'  unspent.'' 

Before  the  conclusion  of  tiiis  introduction,  the  compiler  takes  the  liberty 
to  recommend  to  teachers,  to  exercise  their  pupils  in  discovering  and  explain- 
ing the  emphatic  words  and  the  proper  tones  and  pauses,  of  every  portion  as- 
signed them  to  read,  previously  to  their  being  called  out  to  the  performance. 
These  preparatory  lessons,  in  which  they  should  be  re^larly  exanained,  will 
improve  their  judgment  and  taste ;  prevent  the  practice  of  reading  without 
attention  to  the  subject ;  and  establish  a  habit  of  readily  discoveringuie  mean- 
ing, force,  and  beauty  of  what  they  peruse. 


J:  'i' 


■'■'-  -  ■*  '• 


.■3^^. 


''V"    '  ■, 

-■*■'■        ■  ■    .- 


T 


•^^f 


GLISH  READER. 


m' '  -  »  ■--'  ^ 


PART  I. 
PIECES  m  PROSE. 


,v 


CHAPTER  1. 


„.'i 


SELECT    SENTENCES    AND    PARAGRAPHS. 

SECTION  I.  ^" 

Tr\IIjIGENCE,   industry,  and   proper    improvement    of 
•^^  time,  are  material  duties  of  the  young. 

The  acquisition  of  knowledge  is  one  of  the  most  honour- 
able occupations  of  youth. 

Whatever  useful  or  engaging  endo^vments  we  possess,  vir- 
tue is  requisite,  in  order  to  their  shining  with  proper  lustre. 

Virtuous  youth  gradually    brings  fonvard    accomplished 
and  flourishing  manhood. 

Sincerity  and  tnith  form  the  basis  of  every  virtue. 

Disappointments  and  distress  are  often  blessings  in  dis- 
guise. '        ' 

Change  and  alteration  form  the  very  essence  of  the  world. 

True  happiness  is  of  a  retired  nature  and  an  enemy  to 
pomp  and  noise. 

In  order  to  acquire  a  capacity  for  happiness,  it  must  be 
our  first  study  to  rectify  inward  disoi-ders. 

IVhatever  purifies,  fortifies  also  the  heart.      ^  ^  ^^ 

From  our  eagerness  to  grasp,  we  strangle  and  destroy 
pleasure.    . '"^'■■'-  .•'•■:  ."'"'"  "  ■  '"    "  y"^'  "-''*''■''■'■■ 

A  temperate  spirit,  and  moderate  expectations,  are  excellent 
safeguards  of  the  mind,  in  this  uncertain  and  changing  state. 

There   is  nothing,   except   simplicity  of  intention,  ai\d 

NOTE. — Tn  tlie  first  chapter,  the  compiler  has  cxibjted  s-ciitonres  In  a  great  variety 
of  ci>ns'i.ruclion,  and  in  all  the  diversity  of  punctuation.  If  well  practised  upon,  he  pre- 
numf>s  t!iey  will  fully  prepare  the  young  reader  for  the  variouspaus^^s,  inftfctionB,  and 
modulations  of  voic*;.  which  tho  suc.ceedinn  pieces  require.  The  Author's  "  EnglisU 
FiXerciseH,"  under  the  head  of  Punctuation,  vUl  atford  the  learner  additional  scope 
for  Improving  biD)i)«>lf  in  roadtng  s'Mitences  and  parajrraDhs  varlowdv  coostructcd. 


0 


u 


THE  ENGLISH  R£ 


^      Part  L 
of  near  approach 


purity  of  principle,  that  can  stand  th 
and  strict  examination. 

The  value  of  any  possession  is  to  be  chiefly  estimated,  by 
the  relief  which  it  can  bring  us  in  the  time  of  our  greatest  need. 

No  person  who  has  once  yielded  up  the  government  of  his 
mind,  and  given  loose  rein  to  his  desires  and  passions,  can 
tell  how  far  they  may  carry  him. 

Tranquillity  of  mind  is  always  most  likely  to  be  attained, 
when  the  business  of  the  world  is  tempered  with  thoughtful 
and  serious  retreat. 

He  who  would  act  like  a  wise  man,  and  build  his  house  on 
the  rock,  and  not  on  the  sand,  should  contemplate  human 
life,  not  only  in  the  sunshine,  but  in  the  shade. 

Let  usefulness  and  beneficence,  not  ostentation  and 
vanity,  direct  the  train  of  your  pursuits. 

To  maintain  a  steady  and  unbroken  mind,  amidst  all  the 
shocks  of  the  world,  marks  a  great  and  noble  spirit. 

Patience,  by  preserving  composure  within,  resists  the 
impression  which  trouble  makes  from  without. 

Compassionate  affections,  even  when  they  draw  tears  from 
our  eyes  for  human  misery,  convey  satisfaction  to  the  heart. 

They  who  have  nothing  to  give,  can  often  afford  relief  to 
othera,  by  imparting  what  they  feel. 

Our  ignorance  of  what  is  to  come,  and  of  what  is  really 
good  or  evil,  should  correct  anxiety. about  wordly  success. 

The  veil  which  covers  from  our  sitrht  the  events  of  suc- 
ceeding years,  is  a  veil  woven  by  the  hand  of  mercy. 

The  best  preparation  for  all  the  uncertainties  of  futurity, 
consists  in  a  well-ordered  mind,  a  good  conscience,  and  a 
tjheerful  submission  to  the  will  of  Heaven. 

^.        SECTION  IL 

THE  chief  misfortunes  that  befall  us  in  life,  can  be  traced 
to  some  vices  or  follies  which  we  have  committed. 
'  Were  we  to  survey  the  chambers  of  sickness  and  distress, 
we  should  often  find  them  peopled  with  the  victims  of  intem- 
perance and  sensuality,  and  with  the  children  of  vicious  in- 
dolence and  sloth. 

To  be  wise  in  our  own  eyes,  to  be  wise  in  the  opinion  of 
the  world,  and  to  be  wise  in  the  sight  of  our  Creator,  are 
three  things  so  very  different,  as  rarely  to  coincide. 

Man,  in  his  highest  earthly  glory,  is  but  a  reed  floating  on 
the  stream  of  time,  and  forced  to  follow  every  new  direction 
of  the  current.  '       :        '-..:- 

The  corrupted  temprr,  and  the  guilty  passions  of  tlio  ''•;»!, 


Chaf.  T. 


LECT  SE1NTFNCES. 


1» 


every  advantage  which  the  world  con- 


frustrate  the  ei 
fers  on  them. 

The  external  misfortunes  of  life,  disappointments,  poverty, 
and  sickness,  are  light  in  comparison  of  those  inward  distresses 
of  mind,  occasioned  by  folly,  by  passion,  and  by  guilt. 

No  station  is  so  high,  no  power  so  great,  no  character  so 
unblemished,  as  to  exempt  men  from  the  attacks  of  rashness, 
malice,  or  envy. 

Moral  and  religious  instruction  derives  its  efficacy,  not  so 
much  from  what  men  are  taught  to  know,  as  from  what  they 
are  brought  to  feel. 

He  who  pretends  to  great  sensibility  towards  men,  and  yet 
has  no  feeling  for  the  high  objects  of  religion,  no  heart  to  ad- 
mire and  adore  the  great  Father  of  the  universe,  has  reason 
to  distrust  the  truth  and  delicacy  of  his  sensibility. 

When,  upon  rational  and  sober  enquiry,  we  have  estab- 
lished our  principles,  let  us  not  suffer  them  to  lie  shaken  by 
the  scoffs  of  the  licentious,  or  the  cavils  of  the  sceptical. 

When  we  observe  any  tendency  to  treat  religion  or  morals 
with  disrespect  and  levity,  let  us  hold  it  to  be  a  sure  indica- 
tion of  a  perverted  understanding,  or  a  depraved  heart. 
'  Every  degree  of  guilt  incurred  by  yielding  to  temptation, 
tends  to  debase  the  mind,  and  to  weaken  the  generous  and 
benevolent  principles  of  human  nature. 

Luxury,  pride,  and  vanity,  have  frequently  as  much  in- 
fluence in  corrupting  the  sentinients  of  the  great,  aa  igno- 
rance, bigotry,  and  prejudice,  have  in  misleading  the  opinions 
of  the  multitude.  y^ 

Mixed  as  the  present  state  is,  reason  and  religion  pro- 
nounce that,  generally,  if  not  always,  there  is  more  happi- 
ness than  misery,  more  pleasure  than  pain,  in  the  con- 
dition of  man. 

Society,  when  formed,  requires  distinctions  of  property, 
diversity  of  conditions,  subordination  of  ranks,  and  a  multi- 
plicity of  occupations,  in  order  to  advance  the  general  good. 

That  the  temper,  the  sentiments,  the  morality,  and,  in 
general,  the  whole  conduct  and  character  of  men,  are  in- 
fluenced by  the  example  and  disposition  of  the  persons  with 
whom  they  associate,  is  a  reflection  which  has  long  since 
passed  into  a  proverb,  and  been  ranked  among  the  standing 
maxims  of  human  wisdom,  in  all  ages  of  the  world. 

SECTION  III. 

THE  desire  of  improvement  discovers  a  liberal  mind,  and 
is  connected  with  many  accomplishments,  and  many  virtues. 


16 


THE  ENGLISH  READE 


,\ 


Part  1. 

i 

mind;  and 


Innocence  confers  ease  and  freedom 
leaves  it  open  to  every  pleasing  sensation. 

Moderate  and  simple  pleasures  relish  high  with  the  tern* 
pcrate :  In  the  midst  of  his  studied  refinements,  the  volup- 
tuary  languishes. 

Gentleness  corrects  whatever  is  offensive  in  our  manners ; 
and,  by  a  constant  train  of  humane  attentions,  studies  to  alle- 
viate Uie  burden  of  common  misery. 

That  gentleness  which  is  the  characteristic  of  a  good  man, 
has,  like  every  other  virtue,  its  seat  in  the  heart ;  and,  let 
me  add,  nothing  except  what  flows  from  the  heart,  can  ren- 
der even  external  manners  truly  pleasing. 

Virtue,  to  become  either  vigorous  or  useful,  must  be  ha- 
f)itually  active  :  not  breaking  forth  occasionally  with  a  ti^n- 
sient  lustre,  like  the  blaze  of  a  comet ;  but  regular  in  its  re 
tunis,  like  the  light  of  day :  not  like  the  aromatic  gale, 
which  sometimes  feasts  the  sense;  but  like  the  ordinary 
breeze,  which  purifies  the  air,  and  renders  it  healthful. 

The  happiness  of  every  man  depends  more  upon  the  state 
of  his  own  mind,  than  upon  any  one  external  circumstance : 
nay,  more  than  upon  all  externsd  things  put  together. 

In  no  station,  in  no  period,  let  us  think  ourselves  secure 
from  the  dangers  which  spring  from  our  passions.  Every 
age,  and  every  station  they  beset;  from  youth  to  gray  hairs, 
and  from  the  pessant  to  ilie  priiict;. 

Riches  and  pleasures  are  the  chief  temptations  to  crimi- 
nal deeds.  Yet  those  riches,  when  obtained,  may  very  pos- 
sibly overwhelm  us  with  unforeseen  miseries.  Those  plea- 
sures may  cut  short  our  health  and  life. 

He  who  is  accustomed  to  turn  aside  from  the  world,  and 
commune  with  himself  in  retirement,  will,  sometimes  at 
>Ieast,  hear  the  trutlis  which  the  multitude  do  not  tell  him. 
A  more  sound  instructer  will  lift  his  voice,  and  awaken  with- 
in the  heart  those  latent  suggestions,  which  the  world  had 
overpowered  and  suppressed. 

Amusement  often  becomes  the  business,  instead  of  the  re- 
laxation, of  young  persons :  it  is  then  highly  pernicious. 

He  that  waits  for  an  opportunity  to  do  much  at  once,  may 
breathe  out  his  life  in  idle  wishes;  and  regret,  in  the  last 
hour,  his  useless  intentions  and  barren  zeal.    ^  ;  % 

The  spirit  of  true  religion  breathes  mildness  and  affability. 
It  gives  a  native,  unaffected  ease  to  the  behaviour.  It  ia  so- 
cial, kind,  and  cheerful ;  far  removed  from  that  gloomy  and 
illiberal  superstition,  which  clouds  the  brow,  sharpens  the 


Chap.  1 


SELECT  SENTE^XES. 


17 


tempef,  dejectsf  me  spirit,  and  teaches  men  to  fit  themselves 
lor  another  world,  by  neglecting  tlie  concerns  of  this. 

Reveal  none  of  the  secrets  of  thy  friend.  Be  faithful  to 
Ills  interests.  Forsulce  him  not  in  danger.  Abhor  the 
thought  of  acquiring  any  advantage  by  his  prejudice. 

Man,  always  prosperous,  would  be  giddy  and  insolent ; 
always  afflicted,  would  he  sullen  or  det'pondeat.  Hopes 
and  fears,  joy  and  sorrow,  are,  therefore,  eo  blended  in  his 
life,  as  both  to  give  room  for  worldly  pursuits,  and  to  recall, 
from  time  to  time,  the  admonitions  of  coniscience.        »»; 

SECTION  IV. 

TIME  once  past  never  returns:  the  moment  wliich  is 
lost,  is  lost  for  ever. 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  so  stable,  as  to  assure  ws  of  un- 
disturbed rest ;  nor  so  powerful  as  to  aflbid  us  constant  pro- 
tection. ^ 

The  house  of  feasting,  too  often  becomes  an  avenue  to 
the  house  of  mourning.  Short,  to  the  licentious,  is  the  in- 
terval between  them. 

It  is  of  great  importance  to  us,  to  form  a  proper  estimate 
of  human  life;  without  either  loading  it  with  imaginary  evils, 
or  expecting  from  it  greater  advantages  than  it  is  able  to  yiehl. 

Among  all  our  corrupt  passions,  there  is  a  strong  and  "inti- 
mate connexion.  When  anyone  of  them  is  adopted  into  ou*  fa- 
nrlv,  it  seldom  quits  until  ithasfathered  upon  us  all  its  kindred. 
,  Charity,  like  the  sun,  brightens  every  object  on  which  it 
shines;  a  censorious  disposition  casts  every  character  into 
the  darkest  shade  it  will  bear. 

Many  men  mistake  the  love,  for  the  practice,  of  virtue; 
and  are  #iot  so  much  good  men,  as  the  friends  of  goodness. 

Genuine  virtue  has  a  langirage  that  speaks  to  every  heart 
throughout  the  world.  It  is  a  language  wh'ch  is  understood 
by  all.  In  every  region,  every  climate,  the  homage  paid  to 
it  U  the  same.  In  no  one  sentiment  were  ever  mankind 
more  generally  agreed. 

The  appearances  of  our  security  are  frequently  deceitful. 
.  Wiien  our  sky  seems  most  settled  and  serene,  in  some  un- 
^>obssrved  quarter  gathers  the  little  black  cloud  in  v/hich  the 
tempest  ferments,  and  prepares  to  discharge  itself  on  our  head. 
'  The  man  of  true  fortitude  may  be  compared  to  the  castle 
f.uilt  on  a  rock,  which  defies  the  attacks  of  the  surrounding 
^vaters:  the  man  of  a  feeble  and  timorous  spirit,  to  a  hut 
placed  on  the  shore,  which  every  wind  shakes,  and  e\'«ry 
vavp  overflows.  » 

■2*  ,: 


18 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I, 


Nothing  is  so  inconsistent  with  self-poNiiilon  as  violent 
anger.  It  overpowers  reason  ;  confounds  our  ideas ;  dis- 
torts the  appearance,  and  blackens  the  colour  of  every  ob- 
ject. By  the  storms  which  it  raises  witKin,  and  by  the  miss- 
chiefs  which  it  occasions  without,  it  generally  brings  on  the 
passionate  and  revengeful  man,  greater  misery  than  he  can 
l)i*inff  on  the  object  of  his  resentment. 

The  palace  of  virtue  has,  in  all  ages,  been  represented  as 
placed  on  the  summit  of  a  hill ;  in  the  ascent  of  which,  labour 
is  requisite,  and  difficulties  are  to  be  surmounted ;  and  where 
a  conductor  is  needed,  to  direct  our  way,  and  to  aid  our  steps. 

In  judging  of  others,  let  us  always  think  the  best,  and  em- 
ploy die  spirit  of  charity  and  candour.  But  In  judging  of 
ourselves,  wc  ought  to  be  exact  and  severe. 

Let  him  who  desires  to  see  others  happy,  make  haste  to 
give  while  his  gift  can  be  enjoyed ;  and  remember,  that  every 
moment  of  delay  takes  away  something  from  the  value  of  his 
benefaction.  And  let  him  who  proposes  his  own  happiness 
reflect,  that  while  he  forms  his  purpose,  the  day  rolls  on, 
and  "  the  night  cometh,  when  no  man  can  work." 

To  sensual  persons,  hardly  any  thing  is  what  it  appears  to 
be ;  and  what  flatters  most,  is  always  farthest  from  reality. 
There  are  voices  which  sing  around  them  ;  but  whose  strains 
allui>e  to  ruin.  There  is  a  banquet  spread,  where  poison  is 
in  every  dish.  There  is  a  couch  which  invites  them  to  rcr 
pose ;  but  to  slumber  upon  it,  is  death. 

If  we  would  judge  whether  a  man  is  really  happy,  it  i^ 
not  solely  to  his  houses  and  lands,  to  his  equipage  and  his 
retinue  we  are  to  look.  Unless  we  could  see  farther,  and 
discern  what  joy,  or  what  bitterness,  his  heail  feels,  we  can 
pronounce  little  concerning  him. 

The  book  is  well  written ;  and  I  have  perused  it  with  plea- 
sure and  profit.  It  shows,  first,  that  true  devotion  is  ra- 
tional and  well  founded ;  next,  that  it  is  of  the  highest  im- 
f»ortance  to  every  other  part  of  religion  and  virtue;  and, 
astly,  that  it  is  most  conducive  to  our  happiness. 

There  is  certainly  no  greater  felicity,  than  to  be  able  to 
look  back  on  a  life  usefully  and  virtuously  employed;  to 
jtrace  our  own  progress  in  existence,  by  such  tokens  as  excite 
neither  shame  nor  sorrow.  It  ought,  therefore,  to  be  the 
care  olF  those  who  wish  to  pass  their  last  hours  with  comfort, 
to  lay  up  such  a  treasure  of  pleasing  ideas,  as  shall  support 
the  expenses  of  that  time,  which  is  to  depend  wholly  upon 
the  fund  already  acquired. 


..s^. 


.:-'■'*■ 


CllAP.    I. 


SELECT  SENTENCES. 


19 


to 


SECTION  V. 

WHAT  avails  the  show  of  external  liberty,  to  one  who  has 
lost  the  government  of  himself? 

He  that  cannot  live  well  to-day,  (says  Martial,)  will  be  less 
qualified  to  live  well  to-morrow. 

Can  we  esteem  that  man  prosperous,  who  is  raised  to  a 
situation  which  flatters  his  passions,  but  which  corrupts  his 
principles,  disorders  his  temper,  and  fmally  oversets  his  vir- 
tue? 

What  misery  does  the  vicious  man  Secretly  endure ! — Ad- 
versity !  how  blunt  are  all  the  arrows  of  thy  quiver,  in  com- 
parison with  those  of  guilt ! 

l^lien  we  have  no  pleasure  in  goodness,  we  may  with  cer- 
tainty conclude  the  reason  to  be,  that  our  pleasure  is  all  de- 
rived from  an  opposite  quarter. 

How  strangely  are  the  opinions  of  men  altered,  by  a  change 
in  their  condition! 

How  many  have  had  reason  to  be  thankful,  for  being  dis- 
appointed in  designs  which  they  earnestly  pursued,  but  which 
if  successfully  accomplished,  they  have  afterwards  seen  would 
have  occasioned  their  ruin! 

What  are  the  actions  which  afford  in  the  remembrance  a 
rational  satisfaction?  Are  they  the  pursuits  of  sensual  plea- 
siure,  the  riots  of  jollity,  or  the  displays  of  show  and  vanity? 
No :  I  appeal  to  your  hearts,  my  friends,  if  what  you  recol- 
lect with  most  pleasure,  are  not  the  innocent,  the  virtuous, 
the  honourable  parts  of  your  past  life. 

The  present  employment  of  time  should  frequently  be  an 
object  of  thought.  About  what  are  we  now  busied?  What 
is  the  ultimate  scope  of  our  present  pursuits  and  cares?  Can 
we  justify  them  to  ourselves?  Are  they  likely  to  produce  any 
thing  that  will  survive  the  moment,  and  bring  forth  some  fruit 
for  fiiturity  ? 

Is  it  not  strange,  (says  an  ingenious  writer,)  that  some 
persons  should  be  so  delicate  as  not  to  bear  a  disagreeable 
picture  in  the  house,  and  yet,  by  their  behaviour,  force 
every  face  they  see  about  them,  to  wear  the  gloom  of  uneasi- 
ness and  discontent? 

If  we  are  now  in  health,  peace,  and  safety ;  without  any 
particular  or  uncommon  evils  to  afflict  our  condition  ;  what 
more  can  we  reasonably  look  for  in  this  vain  and  uncertain 
world  ?  How  little  can  the  greatest  prosperity  add  to  such  a 
state?  Will  any  future  situation  ever  msdse  us  happy,  if  now, 
with  so  few  causes  of  grief,  we  imagine  ourselves  miserable? 
T*^t»  ftvi!  *!e«  '\  •'"-  -'  state  of  our  mind.  -  ^*  \i  our  condition  oi 


20 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


Chj 


^■* 


lortunc:  Jind  by  no  alteration  of  circumstances  is  likely  to  be 
remedied. 

\Mien  the  love  of  unwarrantable  pleasures,  and  of  vicious 
companions,  is  allowed  to  amuse  young  persons,  to  engros-j 
their  time,  and  to  stir  up  their  passions,  the  day,  of  niin, — let 
them  take  heed,  and  beware!  the  day  of  irrecoverable  ruin 
begins  to  draw  nigh.  Fortune  is  squandered ;  health  is  b»o- 
ken;  friends  are  offended,  affronted,  estranged;  aged  pa- 
rents, perhaps,  sent  aiHicted  and  mourning  to  the  (lust. 

On  whom  does  time  hang  so  heavily,  as  on  the  slothfjil 
and  la«y?  'J'o  whom  are  the  hours  so  lingering?  Who  are 
so  often  devoured  with  spleen,  and  obliged  to  fly  to  eveiy 
expedient,  which  can  help  them  to  get  rid  of  tliemselves  ? 
fiitilead  of  producing  tranquillity,  indolence  produces  a  fietful 
n'stle>-*?ness  of  mind;  gives  rise  to  cravings  wiiich  are  never 
lati.sfiid;  nourishes  a  sickly,  efleminute  deiicary  which 
y(,ni6  and  corrupts  every  pleasure. 

SECTION  VT. 

WE  have  seen  the  husbandman  scattering  liis  seed  upon  the 
funosved  ground!  It  springs  up,  is  gathered  into  his  banidi, 
ai,d  crowns  his  labours  with  joy  and  plenty.  Thus  the  man 
who  distributes  his  fortune  with  generosity  aj;d  prudence,  is 
amply  repiiid  by  the  gratitude  of  those  who!u  ha  obliges,  Ly 
the  approbation  of  his  own  mind,  and  by  the  ilivour  of  Heii- 
ven.  ';y 

Temperance,  by  fortifying  the  mind  and  body,  leads  to 
happiness  ;  intemperance,  by  enervating  them,  ends  gene- 
rally in  misery. 

Title  and  ancestry  render  a  good  man  more  illustricu3 ; 
hut  an  ill  one,  more  contemptible.  Vice  is  infanious,  though 
in  a  prince;  and  virtue  honourable,  though  in  a  peasant. 

An  elevated  genius,  employed  in  little  things,  appears  (to 
tise  the  simile  of  Longinus)  like  the  sun  in  iiis  evening  dc- 
chnaiion:  he  remits  his  splendour,  but  retains  liis  magnitude; 
and  pleases  more,  though  he  dazzles  less. 

If  envious  people  were  to  ask  themselves,  whether  the^ 
would  exchange  their  entire  situations  with  the  persons  en- 
vied, (I  mean  their  minds,  passions,  notions,  as  well  as  theii 
persons,  fortunes,  and  dignities,) — I  prejune  the  self-love, 
common  to  human  nature,  would  generally  malwe  them  pre- 
fer their  own  condition.  ^^-  .^     ;     ^Ui  ;  ^^st 

We  have  obliged  some  persons:  -  very  v;ell ! — what  would 
we  have  more  f  Is  not  the  consciousness  of  doing  good,  a 
5* nfiicient  reward  ?  _.        .  ,  ,,,,'„,„  ^^,. 


surel 

not 
rati< 

Al 
peaci 
self 

TI 
itprJ 
indei 
if  it 
it  m! 
are 


Chap.  I. 


SELECT  SENTENCES. 


21 


Do  not  hurt  yourselves  or  others,  by  the  pursuit  of  plea- 
sure. Consult  your  whole  nature.  Consider  yourselves 
not  only  as  sensitive,  but  as  rational  beings ;  not  only  as 
rational,  but  social ;  not  only  as  social,  but  immortal. 

Art  thou  poor? — Show  thyself  active  and  industrious^ 
peaceable  and  contented.  Art  thou  wealthy? — Show  thy^ 
self  beneficent  and  charitable,  condescending  and  humane. 

Though  rehgion  removes  not  all  the  evils  of  life  ;  though 
it  promises  no  continuance  of  undisturbed  prosperity,  (which 
indeed  it  were  not  salutary  for  man  always  to  enjoy,)  yet, 
if  it  mitigates  the  evils  which  necessarily  belong  to  our  state, 
it  may  justly  be  said  to  give  "rest  to  them  who  labour  and 
are  heavy  laden." 

What  a  smiling  aspect  does  the  love  of  parents  and  chil- 
dren, of  brothers  and  sisters,  of  friends  and  relations,  give 
to  every  surrounding  object,  and  every  returning  day !  With 
what  a  lustre  does  it  gild  even  the  small  habitation,  where 
this  placid  intercourse  dwells !  where  such  scenes  oi  heart- 
felt satisfaction  succeed  uninterruptedly  to  one  another ! 

How  many  clear  marks  of  benevolent  intention  appear 
every  where  around  us !  What  a  profusion  of  beauty  and 
ornament  is  poured  forth  on  the  face  of  nature !  What  a 
magnificent  spectacle  presented  to  the  view  of  man!  What 
supply  contrived  for  his  wants !  What  a  variety  of  objects 
set  before  him,  to  gratify  his  senses,  to  employ  his  under- 
standing, to  entertain  his  imagination,  to  cheer  and  gladden 
tiis  heart! 

The  hope  of  future  happiness  is  a  perpetual  source  of 
consolation  to  good  men.  Under  trouble,  it  soothes  their 
minds ;  amidst  temptation,  it  supports  their  virtue ;  and,  in 
their  dying  moments,  enables  them  to  say,  "O  death!  where 
is  thy  sting?  0  grave!  where  is  thy  victory?"  ;;. 

SECTION  VII. 

AGESILAUS,  king  of  Sparta,  being  asked,  "What  things 
he  thought  most  proper  for  boys  to  learn,"  -  answered, 
"Those  which  they  ought  to  practise  when  they  come  to  be 
men."  A  wiser  than  Agesilaus  has  inculcated  the  same 
sentiment:  "Train  up  a  child  in  the  way  he  should  go,  and 
when  he  is  old  he  will  not  depart  from  it." 

An  Italian  philosopher  expressed  in  his  motto,  that  "time 
was  his  estate."  An  estate  indeed,  which  will  produce  no- 
thing without  cultivation;  but  which  will  always  abundantly 
repay  the  labours  of  industry,  aiid  satisfy  the  most  extehsivtj 
desires,  if  no  part  of  it  be  suffered  to  lie  waste  by  negligence, 


!WT 


.,Vj;-:2^> 


22 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  f. 


to  be  overrun  with  noxiouB  pl-antn,  or  laid  out  for  show 
rather  than  use.    —  '  * 

When  Aristotle  was  asked,  "  What  a  man  could  jj^in  by 
ipUing  a  falsehood,"  he  replied,  **  Not  to  be  credited  when 
Iw  speaks  the  trutli." 

L'Estrange,  in  his  Fables,  tells  us  that  a  number  of 
frolicsome  boys  were  one  day  watching  frogs,  at  the  side  of 
a  pond ;  and  that,  as  any  of  them  put  their  heads  above  tlie 
water,  ihey  pelted  them  down  again  with  stones.  One  of 
tlio  frogs,  appealing  to  the  humanity  of  the  boys,  made  this 
striking  observation;  "Children,  you  do  not  consider,  that 
tiiough  this  may  be  sport  to  you,  it  is  death  to  us." 

SuU) ,  the  great  statesman  of  France,  always  retained  at 
his  table,  in  his  most  prosperous  days,  the  seune  frugality  to 
which  he  had  been  accustomed  in  early  life.  He  was  fre- 
quently reproached,  by  the  courtiers,  for  his  simplicity  ;  but 
he  used  to  reply  to  them,  in  the  words  of  an  ancient  philoso- 
pher :  "  If  the  guests  are  men  of  sense,  tliere  is  sufficient 
for  them ;  if  they  are  not,  I  can  very  well  dispense  with 
their  company." 

Socrates,  though  primarily  attentive  to  the  culture  of  his 
mind,  was  not  negligent  of  his  external  appearance.  His 
cleanliness  resulted  from  those  ideas  of  order  and  decency, 
which  governed  all  his  actions  ;  and  the  care  which  he  took 
of  his  health,  from  his  desire  to  preserve  his  mind  free  and 
tranquil. 

Eminently  pleasing  and  honourable  was  the  friendship 
between  David  and  Jonathan.  **  I  am  distressed  for  thee, 
my  brothei^  Jonathan,"  said  the  plaintive  and  surviving  Da- 
vid ;  "  very  pleasant  hast  thou  been  to  me :  thy  love  for  me 
vas  wonderful ;  passing  the  love  of  women." 

-Sir  Philip  Sidney,  at  the  battle  near  Zutphen,  was  wound- 
€"1  by  a  musket  ball,  which  broke  the  bone  of  his  thigh. 
1  ie  was  carried  about  a  mile  and  a  half,  to  the  camp ;  and 
Keing  faint  with  the  loss  of  blood,  and  probably  parched 
\with  thirst  through  the  heat  of  the  weather,  he  called  for 
drink.  It  was  immediately  brought  to  him;  but  as  he  was 
putting  the  vessel  to  his  mouth,  a  poor  wounded  soldier, 
who  happened  at  that  instant  to  be  carried  by  him,  looked  up 
to  it  with  wishful  eyes.  The  gallant  and  generous  Sidney 
^ook  the  bottle  from  his  mouth,  and  delivered  it  to  the  sol- 
dier, saying,  "  Thy  necessity  is  yet  greater  than  mine.** 

Alexander  tlie  Great  demanded  of  a  pirate,  whom  he  had 
taken,  by  what  right  he  infested  the  seas?  **  By  the  same 
right,"   replied  he,  "  that  Alexander  enslaves   the  world. 


But 

vess 

grea 

the  s 

A 


1s-:-f 


CiiAr.  1. 


SELECT  SENTENCES. 


^ 


But  I  am  calleH  a  robber,  bcrause  I  have  onl)  one  Hmall 
vessel;  and  he  is  styled  a  coruiueror,  because  ho  conimaiida 
great  fleets  and  armies."  \^  e  too  often  judge  of  men  by 
the  splendour,  and  not  by  the  merit  of  their  actioi  s. 

Antonius  Pius,  tlie  Roman  Emperor,  was  an  amiable  and 
good  man.  When  any  of  his  couitiers  attempt»«<i  to  inilamc 
him  with  a  passion  for  military  glory,  he  usee  to  answer: 
"That  he  more  desired  the  prescrvntion  of  one  subject,  than 
the  destruction  of  a  thousand  (?nemies. 

Men  are  too  often  ingenious  in  making  tbrmpolvos  niisorn- 
ble,  by  aggravating  to  their  own  fancy,  beyond  botindu,  all 
the  evils  which  they  endure.  They  compare  tliemsolves  with 
none  but  those  whom  they  imagine  to  be  mor#  hsippy;  and 
complain,  that  upon  them  alone  has  faUen  the  whole  load  of 
human  sorrows.  Would  tliey  look  with  a  n  ore  impartial 
eye  on  the  world,  tney  would  see  themselves  surroimdo<l  with 
sufferers;  and  find  that  they  are  only  drinkirig  out  of  that 
mixed  cup,  which  Providence  has  prepared  for  all.  *'I 
will  restore  thy  daughter  again  to  life,"  said  an  eastern  8f?ge 
to  a  prince  who  grieved  immoderately  for  the  b  kss  of  a  beloved 
child,  "provided  thou  art  able  to  engrave  on  h<;r  tomb, 
the  names  of  three  persons  who  have  never  mc  urned."  The 
prince  made  inquiry  after  such  persons ;  bu  found  the  in 
quiry  vain,  and  was  silent. 


SECTION  VIII. 

IIE  that  hath  no  rule  over  his  own  spirit,  is  like  a  citjr 
that  is  broken  down,  and  without  walls. 

A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath ;  but  gi  evous  words  stir 
up  anger. 

Better  is  a  dinner  of  herbs  where  love  is,  than  a  stalled  ox, 
and  hatred  therewith. 

Pride  goeth  before  destruction;  and  a  buughty  spirit  be- 
fore a  fall. 

Hear  counsel,  and  receive  instruction,  that  thou  mayest 
be  truly  wise.  ''"'     '' 

Faithful  are  the  wounds  of  a  friend  ;  but  the  kisses  of  an 
enemy  are  deceitful.     Open  rebuke,  is  ]}ettei  than  secret  love. 

Seest  thou  a  man  wise  in  his  own  cojice  1 1  Th^^re  is  more 
hope  of  a  fool  than  of  him. 

He  that  is  slow  to  anger,  is  better  than  the  mighty ;  and 
he  that  ruleth  his  spirit,  than  he  that  taket'i  a  city. 

He  that  hath  pity  on  the  poor,  lendeth  to  the  Lord  ;  that 
which  he  hath  given,  will  he  pay  him  again.  i^?*^^^.^- 


24 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


> 


V 


If  thine  enemy  be  hungry,  give  him  bread  to  eat;  and  if 
he  be  thirsty,  give  him  water  to  drink. 

He  that  planted  the  ear,  shall  he  not  hear?  He  that  formed 
the  eye,  shall  he  not  see  ? 

I  have  been  young,  and  now  I  am  old :  yet  have  I  never 
seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging  bread. 

It  is  better  to  be  a  door-keeper  in  the  house  of  the  Lord, 
than  to  dwell  in  the  tents  of  wickedness. 

I  have  seen  the  wicked  in  great  power;  and  spreading  him- 
self like  a  green  bay-tree.  Yet  he  passed  away ;  I  sought 
him,  but  he  coUld  not  be  found. 

Happy  is  the  man  that  findeth  wisdom.  Length  of  days 
is  in  her  right  hand ;  and  in  her  left  hand,  riches  and  ho- 
nour :  her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  all  her  paths 
are  peace. 

How  good  and  how  pleasant  it  is  for  brethren  to  dwell  together 
in  unity!  It  is  like  precious  ointment;  like  the  dew  of  Her- 
mon,  and  the  dew  that  descended  upon  the  mountains  of  Zion 

The  sluggard  will  not  plough  by  reason  of  the  cold ;  he 
shall  therefore  beg  in  harvest,  and  have  nothing. 

I  went  by  the  field  of  the  slothful,  and  by  the  vineyard  of 
the  man  void  of  understanding:  and  lo!  it  was  all  grown 
over  with  thorns ;  nettles  had  covered  its  face ;  and  the  stone 
wall  was  broken  down.  Then  1  saw,  and  considered  it 
well :  I  looked  upon  it,  and  received  instruction. 

Honourable  age  is  not  that  which  standeth  in  lengtli  of 
time ;  nor  that  which  is  measured  by  number  of  years  :  but 
wisdom  is  the  gray  hair  to  man;  and  an  unspotted  life  Isold  age. 

Solomon,  my  son,  know  thou  the  God  of  thy  fathers;  and 
serve  him  with  a  perfect  heart  and  with  a  willing  mind.  If 
thou  seek  him,  he  will  be  found  of  thee ;  but  if  thou  forsake 
him,  hfi  will  cast  thee  ofl'  for  ever. 

SECTION  IX. 

THAT  every  day  has  its  pains  and  sorrows  is  universally 
experienced,  and  almost  universally  confessed.  But  let  us 
not  attend  only  to  mournful  trutlis:  if  wt  look  impartially 
about  us,  we  shall  find,  that  every  day  has  likewise  its  plea- 
sures and  its  joys. 

We  should  cherish  sentiments  of  charity  towards  all  men. 
The  Author  of  all  good,  nourishes  much  piety  and  virtue  in 
hearts  that  are  unknown  to  us;  and  beholds  repentance  ready 
to  spring  up  among  many  whom  we  consider  as  r»*probates. 

Ko  one  ought  to  consider  himself  as  ihsiarnificant  in  the 
^ght  of  his  Creator.     In  our  several  statioiiis,  we  are  all  sent 


CflAr.  I. 


SELECT  SENTENCES. 


25 


forth  to  be  labourers  in  the  vineyard  of  our  heavenly  Father. 
Every  man  has  his  work  allotted,  his  talent  committed  to 
him;  by  the  due  improvement  of  which  he  may,  in  one 
way  or  other,  serve  God,  promote  virtue,  and  be  useful  in 
the  world. 

The  love  of  praise  should  be  preserved  under  proper  sub- 
ordination to  the  principle  of  duty.  In  itself,  it  is  a  useful  mo- 
tive to  action ;  but  when  allowed  to  extend  its  influence  too 
far,  it  corrupts  the  whole  character,  and  produces  guilt,  dis- 
grace, and  misery.  To  be  entirely  destitute  of  it,  is  a  defect. 
To  be  governed  by  it,  is  depravity.  The  proper  adjustment 
of  the  several  principles  of  action  in  human  nature  is  a  mat- 
ter that  deserves  our  highest  attention.  For  when  any  one 
of  them  becomes  either  too  weak  or  too  strong,  it  endangers 
both  our  virtue  and  our  happiness. 

The  desires  and  passions  of  a  vicious  man,  having  once 
obtained  an  unlimited  sway,  trample  him  under  their  feet. 
They  make  him  feel  that  he  is  subject  to  various,  contradic- 
tory and  imperious  masters,  who  often  pull  him  different 
ways.  His  soul  is  rendered  the  receptacle  of  many  repug- 
naiit  and  jarring  dispositions  ;  and  resembles  some  barbarous 
country,  cantoned  out  into  different  principalities,  which  are 
continually  waging  war  on  one  another. 

Diseases,  poverty,  disappointment,  and  shame,  are  far 
from  being,  in  every  instance,  the  unavoidable  doom  of  man 
They  are  much  more  frequently  the  offspring  of  his  own  mis- 
guided choice.  Intemperance  engenders  disease,  sloth  pro- 
duces poverty,  pride  creates  disappointments,  and  dishonesty 
exposes  to  shame.  The  ungoverned  passions  of  men  be- 
tray them  into  a  thousand  follies;  their  follies  into  crimes; 
and  their  crimes  into  misfortunes. 

When  we  reflect  on  the  many  distresses  which  abound  in 
human  life  ;  on  the  scanty  proportion  of  happiness  which  any 
man  is  here  allowed  to  enjoy ;  on  the  small  difference  which 
the  diversity  of  fortune  makes  on  that  scanty  proportion ;  it  is 
surprising  that  envy  should  ever  have  been  a  prevalent  passion 
among  men,  much  more  that  it  should  have  prevailed  among 
Christans.  Where  so  much  is  suffered  in  common,  little 
room  is  left  for  envy.  There  is  more  occasion  for  pity  and 
sympathy,  and  an  inclination  to  assist  each  other. 

At  our  first  setting  out  in  life,  when  yet  unacquainted  with 
the  world  and  its  snares,  when  eveiy  pleasure  enchants  with 
its  smile,  and  every  object  shines  with  the  gloss  o^novelty, 
let  us  beware  of  the  seducing  appearances  which  surround  us ; 
and  retoiieci  what  others  have  sur^ered  from  the  power  of 


^6 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  t. 


headstrong  desire.  If  we  allow  any  passion,  even  though 
it  be  esteemed  innocent,  to  acquire  an  absolute  ascendant, 
our  inward  peace  will  be  impaired.  But  if  any  which  has 
the  taint  af  guilt  take  early  possession  of  our  mind,  we  may 
date,  from  that  moment,  the  ruin  of  our  tranquillity. 

Every  man  has  some  darling  passion,  which  generally  af- 
fords the  first  introduction  to  vice.  The  irregular  gratifica- 
tions into  which  it  occasionally  seduces  him,  appear  under 
the  form  of  venial  weaknesses ;  and  are  indulged,  in  the  be- 
ginning, with  scrupulousness  and  reserve.  But,  by  longer 
practice,  these  restraints  weaken,  and  the  power  of  habit 
grows.  One  vice  brings  in  another  to  its  aid.  By  a  sort  of 
natural  affinity  they  connect  and  entwine  themselves  toge- 
ther ;  till  their  roots  come  to  be  spread  wide  and  deep  over 
ail  the  soul. 

SECTION  X. 

WHENCE  arises  the  misery  of  this  present  world  1  It  is 
not  owing  to  our  cloudy  atmosphere,  our  changing  seasons, 
and  inclement  skies.  It  is  not  owing  to  the  debility  of  our 
bodies,  or  to  the  unequal  distribution  of  the  goods  of  for- 
tune. Amidst  all  disadvantages  of  this  kind,  a  pure,  a  stead- 
fast, and  enlightened  mind,  possessed  of  strong  virtue,  could 
enjoy  itself  in  peace,  and  smile  at  the  impotent  assaults  of 
fortune  and  the  elements.  It  is  within  ourselves  that  misery 
has  fixed  its  seat.  Our  disordered  hearts,  our  guilty  pas- 
sions, our  violent  prejudices,  and  misplaced  desires,  are  the 
instruments  of  the  trouble  which  we  endure.  These  sharpen 
the  darts  which  adversity  would  otherwise  point  in  vaia 
against  us. 

While  the  vain  and  the  licentious  are  revelling  in  the 
midst  of  extravagance  and  riot,  how  little  do  they  think  of 
those  scenes  of  sore  distress  which  are  passing  at  that  mo- 
ment throughout  the  world;  multitudes  struggling  for  a  poor 
subsistence,  to  support  the  wife  and  children  whom  they  love, 
and  who  look  up  to  them  with  eaoer  eves  for  that  bread 
which  they  can  hardly  procure ;  multitudes  groaning  under 
sickness  in  desolate  cottages,  untendod  and  unmourned ; 
many,  apparently  in  a  better  situation  of  life,  pining  away  in 
secret  with  concealed  griefs;  families  weeping  over  the  be- 
loved friends  whom  they  have  lost,  or  in  all  the  bitterness  of 
ajiffuUh,  bidding  those  who  are  just  expiring  the  last  adieu. 

Never  adventure  on  too  near  an  approach  to  what  is  evil. 
Familiarize  not  yourselves  with  it,  in  the  slightest  instances, 
without  fear.     Listen  with  reverence  to  every  reprebensioa 


Chaf.  I. 


SELECT  SENTENCES. 


27 


of  conscience  ;  and  preserve  the  most  quick  and  accurate  sen- 
sibility to  right  and  wrong.  If  ever  your  moral  impressions 
begin  to  decay,  and  your  natural  abhorrence  of  guilt  to  les- 
sen, you  have  ground  to  dread  that  the  ruin  of  virtue  is  fast 
app)  oaching. 

By  disappointments  and  trials  the  violence  of  our  pas 
sions  is  tamed,  and  our  minds  are  formed  to  sobriety  and  re- 
flection. In  the  varieties  of  life,  occasioned  by  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  worldly  fortune,  we  are  inured  to  habits  both  of  the 
active  and  the  suffering  virtues.  How  much  soever  we  com- 
plain of  the  vanity  of  the  world,  facts  plainly  show,  that  if  its 
vanity  were  less,  it  could  not  answer  the  purpose  of  salutary 
discipline.  Unsatisfactory  as  ii  is,  its  pleasures  are  still  too 
apt  to  corrupt  our  heaits.  How  fatal  then  must  the  conse- 
quences have  been,  had  it  yielded  us  more  complete  enjoy- 
ment 1  If,  with  all  its  troubles,  we  are  in  danger  of  being  too 
much  attached  to  it,  how  entirely  would  it  have  seduced  our 
affections,  if  no  troubles  had  been  mingled  with  its  pleasures? 

In  seasons  of  distress  or  difficulty,  to  abandon  ourselves 
to  dejection,  carries  no  mark  of  a  great  or  a  worthy  mind.  In- 
stead of  sinking  under  trouble,  and  declaring  "that  his  soul  is 
weary  of  life,"  it  becomes  a  wise  and  a  good  man,  in  the 
evil  day,  with  firmness  to  maintain  his  post :  to  bear  up 
against  the  storm;  to  have  recourse  to  those  advantages  which, 
in  the  worst  of  times,  are  always  left  to  integrity  and  virtue ; 
and  never  to  give  up  the  hope  that  better  days  may  yet  arise. 

How  many  young  persons  have  at  first  set  out  in  the  world 
with  excellent  dispositions  of  heart;  generous,  charitable, 
and  humane ;  kind  to  their  friends,  and  amiable  among  all 
with  whom  they  had  intercourse !  And  yet  how  often  have 
we  seen  all  those  fine  appearances  unhappily  blasted  in  the 
progress  of  life,  merely  through  he  infiu  nee  of  loose  and 
corrupting  pleasures :  and  those  very  persons,  who  promised 
once  to  be  blessings  to  the  world,  sink  down,  in  the  end, 
to  be  the  burden  and  nuisance  of  society  ! 

The  most  common  propensity  of  mankind,  is  to  store  fu- 
turity with  whatever  is  agreeable  to  them ;  especially  in  those 
periods  of  life,  when  imagination  is  lively,  and  hope  is  ar- 
dent. Looking  forward  to  the  year  now  beginning,  they  are 
ready  to  promise  themselves  much,  from  the  foundations  cnf 
prosperity  which  they  have  laid;  from  the  friendships  and 
connexions  which  they  have  secured ;  and  from  the  plans  of  con- 
duct which  they  have  formed.  Alas!  how  deceitful  do  all 
these  dreams  of  happiness  often  prove  !  While  many  are  say- 
infj  in  secret  to  their  hearts,  "  To-morrow  shall  be  as  this  day, 


23 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


and  more  abundantly,"  we  are  obliged  in  return  to  say  to 
them;  "Boast  not  yourselves  of  to-morrow  for  you  knovv 
not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth!'* 


: 


;  CHAPTER  n. 

V  ^ARR^TIVE  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

JVb  tank  or  possessions  can  make  the  guilty  mind  happy, 

DIONYSIUS,  the  tyrant  of  Sicily,  was  far  from  being 
happy,  though  he  possessed  great  riches,  and  all  the  plea- 
sures which  wealth  and  power  could  procure.  Damocles, 
one  of  his  flatterers,  deceived  by  these  specious  appearances 
of  happiness,  took  occasion  to  compliment  him  on  the  extent 
of  his  power,  his  treasures,  and  royal  magnificence ;  and 
declaied  that  no  monarch  had  ever  been  greater  or  happier 
than  Dionysius. 

2  "Hast  thou  a  mind,  Damocles,"  says  the  king,  "  to 
taste  this  happiness ;  and  to  know,  by  experience,  what  the 
enjojrments  are,  of  which  thou  hast  so  high  an  idea?"  Da- 
mocles, with  joy,  accepted  the  offer.  The  king  ordered  that 
a  royal  banquet  should  be  prepared,  and  a  gilded  sofa,  cover- 
ed with  rich  embroidery,  placed  for  his  favourite.  Side- 
boards, loaded  with  gold  and  slkver  plate,  of  immense  value, 
were  arranged  in  the  apartment. 

3  Pages  of  extraordinary  beauty  were  ordered  to  attend 
his  table,  and  to  obey  his  commands  with  the  utmost  readi- 
ness, and  the  most  profound  submission.  Fragrant  oint- 
ments, chaplets  of  flowers,  and  rich  perfumes,  were  added 
to  the  entertainment.  The  table  was  loaded  with  the  most 
exquisite  delicacies  of  every  kind.  Damocles,  intoxicated 
with  pleasure,  fancied  himself  amongst  superior  beings. 

4  But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  happiness,  as  he  lay  indulging 
himself  in  state,  he  sees  let  down  from  the  ceiling,  exactly 
over  his  head,  a  glittering  sword  hung  by  a  single  hair. 
The  sight  of  impending  destruction  put  a  speedy  end  to  hid 
joy  and  revelling.  The  pomp  of  his  attendance,  the  glit- 
ter of  the  carved  plate,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  viands,  cease 
to  aflbrd  him  any  pleasure.  *       .1;^. 

5  He  dreads  to  stretch  forth  his  hand  to  the  table.  He 
throws  off  the  garland  of  roses.  He  hastens  to  remove  from 
bis  dangerous  situation ;  and  earnestly  entreats  the  kln^  to 


■M 


Chap.  II. 


NARRATIVE  PIECES. 


19 


restore  him  to  his  former  humble  condition,  having  no  desire 
to  enjoy  any  longer  a  happiness  so  terrible. 

6  By  this  device,  Dionysius  intimated  to  Damocles,  how 
miserable  he  was  in  the  midst  of  all  his  treasures ;  and  in 
possession  of  all  the  honours  and  enjoyments  vvlilch  royalty 
could  bestow.  cicero. 

SECTION  II. 

Change  of  external  coniliiion  is  often  adverse  lo  virtue* 

IN  the  days  of  Joram,  king  of  Israel,  flourished  the  prophet 
Elisha.  His  character  was  so  eminent,  and  his  fame  so 
widely  spread,  that  Benhadad,  the  king  of  Syria,  though  an 
idolater,  sent  to  consult  him,  concerning  the  issue  of  a  dis- 
temper which  threatened  his  life.  The  messenger  employed 
on  this  occasion  was  Ilazael  who  appeal's  to  have  been  one 
of  the  princes,  or  chief  men  of  the  Syrian  court. 

2  Charged  with  rich  gifts  from  the  king,  he  presents  him- 
self before  the  prophet;  and  accosts  him  in  terms  of  the  high- 
est respect.  During  the  conference  whicli  they  held  toge- 
ther, Elisha  fixed  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  the  countenance  of 
Hazael,  and  discerning,  by  a  prophetic  s})irit,  his  future  ty- 
ranny and  ciuelty,  he  could  not  contain  himself  from  bui'sting 
into  a  flood  of  tear's. 

3  When  Hazael,  in  surprise,  inquired  into  the  cause  of  this 
sudden  emotion,  the  prophet  plainly  infariiigd  him  of  the 
crimes  and  barbarities,  which  he  foresaw  Ihat  he  would  after- 
wards commit.  The  soul  of  Hazael  abhorred,  at  this  time, 
the  thoughts  of  cruelty.  Uncorrnpted,  as  yet,  by  ambition 
or  greatness,  his  mviignation  rose  at  being  thought  capable  of 
the  savage  actions  which  the  prophet  had  mentioned;  and, 
with  much  warmth,  he  replies :  "  But  what !  is  thy  sewant  a 

jlog,  that  he  should  do  this  gr^^at  thing?" 
vk4  Tilisha  makes  no  return,  but  to  point  out  a  remarkable 
change,  which  was  to  take  place  in  his  condition  :  '*  i.  he  Lord 
hath  shown  me,  that  tho\i  s'l.alt  be  kmg  over  Syria."  In 
the  course  of  time,  all  that  liad  been  predicted  ctujie  to  pass. 
Hazael  ascended  the  throne,  and  ambition  took  possession 
of  h'is  heart.  *'  He  smote  the  cliildre.  of  Israel  m  all  their 
coasts.  He  oppressel  them  hir'ng  a-)  :he  days  «f  king  Je- 
hoahazj"  and,  from  what  is  ieil  on  record  of  his  actions,  he 
plainly  appears  to  have  proved,  what  the  prophet  foresaw  him 
to  be,  a  man  of  violence,  cruelty   and  blood. 

6  In  this  passage  of  history  n  object  is  presented,  which 
deserves  our  serious  attention      We  behold  a  man  who,  in 

:3*  .       :  ' 


39 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part.  I. 


one  state  of  life,  could  not  look  upon  certain  crames  without 
surprise  and  iiorror ;  who  knew  so  little  of  himself,  as  to  l)e- 
lieve  it  impossible  for  him  ever  to  he  concerned  in  committijig 
them ;  that  same  man,  by  a  change  of  condition,  and  an  un- 
guarded state  of  mind,  transformed  in  all  his  sentiments  ;  and 
as  he  rose  in  greatness,  rising  also  in  guilt ;  till  at  last  he 
completed  that  whole  character  of  iniquity,  which  he  once 
deteiited.  blaik. 

SECTION  III. 

Haman  ;  or^  the  misery  of  pride, 

AHASITERUS,  who  is  supposed  to  be  the  prince  known 
among  the  Greek  historians  by  the  name  of  Aitaxerxes,  had 
advanced  to  the  chief  dignity  in  his  kingdom,  Haman,  an 
Amalekite,  who  inherited  all  the  ancient  enmity  of  his  race  to 
the  Jewish  nation.  He  appears,  from  what  is  recorded  of 
him,  to  have  been  a  very  wicked  minister.  Raised  to  great- 
ness without  merit,  he  employed  his  power  solely  for  the  gra- 
tification of  his  passions. 

2  As  the  honours  which  he  possessed  were  next  to  royal, 
his  pride  was  every  day  fed  with  that  servile  homage,  which 
is  peculiar  to  Asiatic  courts  ;  and  all  the  servants  of  the  king 
prostrated  themselves  before  him.  In  the  midst  of  this  gene- 
I'al  adulation,  one  person  only  stooped  not  to  Haman. 

3  This  was  Mordecai  the  Jew  ;  who,  knowing  this  Ama- 
lekite to  be  afti  enemy  to  the  people  of  God,  and,  with  vir- 
tuous indignation,  despising  that  insolence  of  prosperity  with 
which  he  saw  him  lifted  up,  "  bowed  not,  nor  did  him  reve- 
rence." On  this  appearance  of  disrespect  from  Mordecai, 
Haman  "  was  full  of  wrath ;  but  he  thought  scorn  to  lay 
kands  on  Mordecai  alone."  Personal  reve*iji,.j  was  liot  suffi- 
cient to  sjitisfy  him. 

4  So  violent  and  black  were  his  passions,  that  he  resolve^, 
to  exterminate  the  whole  nation  to  which  Mordecai  belongedjf 
Abusing,  for  this  cruel  purpose,  the  favour  of  his  credulous 
sovereign,  he  obtained  a  decree  to  be  sent  forth,  that  against  a 
certain  day,  all  the  Jews  throughout  the  Persian  dominions 
should  be  put  to  the  sword. 

6  Meanwhile,  confident  of  success,  and  blind  to  approach- 
ing ruin,  he  continued  exulting  in  his  prosperity.  Invited  by 
Ahasuerus  to  a  royal  banquet,  which  Esther  the  queen  had 
prepared,  "  he  w'ent  forth,  that  day  joyful,  and  with  a  glad 
heart."  But  behold  how  slight  an  incident  was  sufficient  to 
puison  his  joy  !  As  he  went  forth  he  saw  Mordecai  in  the 
taig's  gate ;  and  observed,  that  he  still  refused  to  do  him 


Chap.  II. 


NARRATIVE  PIECES. 


ai 


homage.  "  He  stood  not  up,  nor  was  moved  lor  him;'*  cJ- 
though  he  well  knew  the  formidable  designs  which  Hainan 
was  preparing  to  execute. 

6  One  private  man,  who  despised  his  greatness,  and  dis- 
dained submission,  while  a  whole  kingdom  trembled  before 
him;  one  spirit,  which  the  utmost  stretch  of  his  power 
could  neither  subdue  nor  humble,  blasted  his  triumphs. 
His  whole  soul  was  shaken  with  a  storm  of  passion.  Wrath, 
pride,  jsind  desire  of  revenge,  rose  into  fury.  With  difficulty 
he  restrained  himself  in  public  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  came  to  his 
own  house,  he  was  forced  to  disclose  the  agony  of  his  mind. 

7  He  gathered  together  his  friends  and  family,  with  Ze- 
resh  his  wife.  "  He  told  them  of  the  glory  of  his  riches,  and 
the  multitude  of  his  children,  and  of  all  the  things  wherein 
tlie  king  had  promoted  him;  and  how  he  had  advanced  him 
above  the  princes  and  servants  of  the  king.  He  said,  more- 
over, Yea,  Esther  the  queen,  suffered  no  man  to  come  in 
with  the  king,  to  the  banquet  that  she  had  prepared,  but  my- 
self; and  to-morrow  also  am  I  invited  to  her  with  the  king." 
After  all  this  preamble,  what  is  the  conclusion?  "Yet  all 
this  availeth  me  nothing,  so  long  as  I  see  Mordecai  the 
Jew  sitting  at  the  king's  gate." 

8  The  sequel  of  Haman's  history  I  shall  not  now  pursue. 
It  might  afford  matter  for  much  instruction,  by  the  conspicu- 
ous justice  of  God  in  his  fall  and  punishment.  But  contem- 
plating only  the  singular  situation,  in  which  the  expressions 
just  quoted  present  him,  and  the  violent  agitation  of  his  mind 
which  they  display,  the  following  reflections  naturally  arise : 
How  miserable  is  vice,  when  one  guilty  passion  creates  so 
much  torment!  how  unavailing  is  prosperity,  when  in  the 
height  of  it,  a  single  disappointment  can  destroy  the  relish  of 
all  its  pleasures!  how  weak  is  human  nature,  which,  in  the 
absence  of  real,  is  thus  prone  to  form  to  itself  imaginary 

woes!  BLAIR. 

SECTION  IV. 

Lady  Jane  Gray.  *^ 

THIS  excellent  personage  wis  descended  from  the  royal 
line  of  England  by  both  her  parents.  She  was  carefully  edu- 
cated in  the  principles  of  the  reformation;  and  her  wisdom 
and  virtue  rendered  her  a  shining  example  to  her  sex.  But 
it  was  her  lot  to  continue  onU'  a  short  ptriod  on  this  stage  of 
being;  for,  in  early  life,  -he  fer  a  saciidce  to  tl >  wild  am- 
bition of  the  duke  of  Norinumberland,  who  promotwi  a  mai- 
riage  between  her  and  his  son,  lord  Guilford  Dudley;  an«( 


3a 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


raised  her  to  t}i9  throne  of  England,  in  opposition  to  the 
rights  of  Maiy  and  Elizabeth. 

2  At  the  time  of  their  marriage,  she  was  orily  about  eigh- 
teen years  of  age,  and  her  iiusband  was  also  very  young;  a 
season  of  life  vfry  unequal  to  oppose  the  interested  views  of 
artful  and  aspiring  men  ;  who  instead  of  exposing  them  in 
danger,  should  have  been  the  protectors  of  their  imioceiiC(i 
and  youth. 

3  This  extraordinary  young  person,  besides  the  solid  en- 
dowments of  piety  and  virtue,  possessed  the  most  engaging 
disposition,  the  most  accomplished  parts;  and  being  of  an 
equal  age  with  king  jul^vard  \I.  she  had  received  all  her 
education  with  him,  and  seemed  even  to  possess  a  greater  fa- 
cility in  acquiring  every  pnrt  of  manly  ancf  classical  literature. 

4  She  had  attained  a  knowledge  of  the  Roman  and  Greek 
languages,  as  well  as  of  severnl  modern  tongues  ;  had  passe*! 
most  of  her  time  in  aji  application  to  learning  ;  and  express- 
ed a  great  indifrereuce  for  other  occupations  and  amusements 
usual  witli  her  sex  and  station. 

6  Roger  Ascham,  tutor  to  the  lady  Elizabeth,  having  at 
one  time  paid  lier  a  visit,  found  her  employed  in  readinj^ 
Plato,  %vhile  the  rest  of  tlie  family  were  engager!  in  a  party 
of  hunting  in  the  park  ;  and  upon  his  admir'ng  tlie  sinf^ularity 
of  her  choice,  she  told  1dm  that  s^he  "  rore'ved  more  plea- 
sure from  that  author,  than  the  others  could  reap  from  all 
their  sport  and  gaiety." 

6  Ifer  heart,  replete  with  this  love  of  litcn'ature  and  seri- 
ous studies,  and  with  tenderness  towards  her  h'lsband,  who 
was  deserving  of  her  affection,  had  r.ever  opened  itself  to  the 
flattering  allurements  of  ambiiion ;  aiul  the  information  of 
her  advancement  to  the  throne  was  by  no  means  agreeable 
to  her.  She  even  refused  to  accept  the  crown  ;  pleaded  the 
preferable  right  of  the  two  princesses  ;  expressed  her  dread 
of  tlie  consequences  attending  an  enterprise  so  dangerous, 
not  to  say  criminal ;  and  desired  to  remain  in  that  private 
station  in  which  she  was  born, 

7  Overcome  at  last  with  the  entreaties,  rather  than  rea- 
sons,   of  her  father  and    t*ather-in-law,  and,   above  all,    of 

-her  husband,  she  submitted  to  ther  will,  and  vras  prevailed 
on  to  relinquish  her  own  judgme.it.  But  her  elevation  was 
of  very  short  continuance.  The  nation  declared  for  queen 
MsMy  ;  and  the  lady  Jane,  after  wearing  the  vain  pageantry 
of  a  crown  during  ten  days,  returned  to  a  private  life,  with 
much  more  satisfaction  than  she  felt  when  royalty  was  ten- 
dered to  her.     i^    fV  i 


8 


■^jt«^ 


"/>>"*'*■ 


Chap.  U. 


NARRATIVE  PIEC^  3. 


8  Queen  Mary,  ivho  appears  to  hm%  been  incapable  oi 
generosity  or  clemency,  determined  to  remove  every  per- 
son, from  whom  the  least  danger  could  be  apprehended. 
Warning  was,  therefore,  given  to  lady  Jane  to  prepare  for 
death  ;  a  doom  which  she  had  expected,  and  wnich  the  in* 
nocence  of  her  life,  as  well  as  the  misfortunes  to  which  she 
had  been  exposed,  rendered  no  unwelcome  news  to  her. 

9  The  queen's  bigoted  zeal,  under  colour  of  tender  mercy 
to  the  prisoner's  soul,  induced  her  to  send  priests,  who  mo- 
lested her  with  perpetual  disputation  ;  and  even  a  reprieve  of 
three  days  was  granted  her^  in  hopes  that  she  would  be  per- 
suaded, during  that  time,  to  pay,  by  a  timely  conversion  to 
popery,  some  regard  to  her  eternal  welfare. 

1 0  Lady  Jane  had  presence  of  mind,  in  those  melancholy 
circumstances,  not  only  to  defend  her  religion  by  solid  argu- 
ments, but  also  to  write  a  letter  to  her  sister,  in  the  Greek 
language,  in  which,  besides  sending  her  a  copy  of  the  Scrip* 
tures  in  that  tongue,  she  exhorted  her  to  mahitain,  in  every 
fortune,  a  like  steady  perseverance. 

11  On  the  day  of  her  execution,  her  husband,  lord  Guil- 
ford, desired  permission  to  see  her ;  but  she  refused  her  con- 
sent, and  sent  him  word,  that  the  tenderness  of  their  part- 
ing, would  overcome  the  fortitude  of  both ;  and  would  too 
much  unbend  their  minds  from  that  constancy  which  their 
approaching  end  re(juired  of  them.  Their  separation,  she 
said,  would  be  only  for  a  moment,  and  they  would  soon  re- 
join each  other  in  a  scene,  where  their  affections  would  be 
forever  united  ;  and  where  death,  disappointment,  and  mis- 
fortune s,  could  no  longer  have  access  to  them,  qt  disturb 
their  eternal  felicity. 

12  It  had  been  intended  to  execute  the  lady  Jane  and  lord 
Guilford  together  on  the  same  scaffold,  at  Tower  Hill ;  but 
the  council,  dreading  the  compassion  of  the  people  for  their 
youth,  beauty,  innocence,  and  noble  birth,  changed  their 
orders,  and  gave  directions  that  she  should  be  beheaded  within 
the  verge  of  the  Tower. 

13  She  saw  her  husband  led  to  execution ;  and,  having 
given  him  from  the  window  some  token  of  her  remembrance, 
she  waited  with  ti'anquillity  till  her  own  appointed  hour  should 
bring  her  to  a  like  fate.  She  even  saw  his  headless  body  car- 
ried back  in  a  cart;  and  found  hers^f  more  cofirmed  by 
the  reports  which   she  heard  of  the  constancy  of  his  end, 

.than  shaken  by  so  tender  and  melancholy  a  spectacle. 
4iS  ]4  q,\y  John  Gage,  constable  of  the  Tower,  when  he  led 
/      her  to  cxecT'.tiori,  ilesircd  her  to  bestow  orv  him  some  small 


A 


u 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


■iresent,  which  he  might  Iceep  as  a  perpetual  memorial  of  her. 
She  gave  him  her  table-hook,  in  which  she  had  just  wrUten 
three  sentences,  on  seeing  her  husband's  dead  body ;  one  in 
Oreeic,  another  in  La^ih,  a  third  in  English. 

16  The  purport  of  them 'Vas,  *'  that  human  justice  was 
Against  his  body,  but  the  Divine  Mercy  would  be  favourable 
to  his  soul;  and  that  if  her  fault  deserved  punishment,  licr 
jouth,  at  least,  and  her  imprudence,  were  worthy  of  excuse  ; 
fuid  that  God  and  posterity,  she  trusted,  would  show  her  fa- 
irour."  On  the  scaffold,  she  made  a  speech  ^>  the  by-stand- 
firs,  in  which  the  mildness  of  her  dispositiori  !ed  her  to  talvc 
the  blame  entirely  on  herself,  without  uttering  one  complaint 
^nst  the  severity  with  which  she  had  been  treated. 

16  She  said,  that  her  offence  was,  not  that  she  had  laid 
tier  hand  upon  the  crown,  but  that  she  had  not  rejected  it 
with  sufficient  constancy ;  that  she  had  less  erred  through 
ambition  than  through  reverence  to  her  parents,  whom  she 
had  been  taught  to  love  and  ohty :  that  she  willingly  re- 
ceived death,  as  the  only  satisfaction  which  she  could  now 
make  to  the  injured  state ;  and  though  her  infringement  of 
tJie  laws  had  been  constrained,  she  would  show,  by  her  vol- 
untary submission  to  their  sentence,  that  she  was  desirous  to 
atone  for  that  disobedience,  into  which  too  much  filial  piety 
had  betrayed  ner  :  that  she  had  justly  deserved  this  punish- 
ment, for  being  made  the  instrument,  though  the  unwilling 
instrument,  of  the  ambition  of  others ;  and  that  the  story  of 
her  life,  she  hoped,  might  at  least  be  useful,  by  proving  that 
innocence  excuses  not  great  misdeeds,  if  they  tend  in  any  way 
io  the  destruction  of  the  commonwealth. 

17  Afler  uttering  these  words,  she  caused  herself  to  be 
ilisrobed  by  her  women,  and  with  a  steady,  serene  counte- 
naace,  submitted  herself  to  the  executioner.  hu.me. 

SECTION  V. 

'frttip^rul ;  or,  the  vanity  of  riches, 

AS  Ortogrul,  of  Basra,  was  one  day  wandering  along  the 
streets  of  Bagdat,  musing  on  the  varieties  of  merchandise 
which  the  shops  opened  to  his  view,  and  observing  the  dif- 
ferent occupations  which  busied  the  multitude  on  every  side^ 
he  was  awakened  from  the  tranquillity  of  meditation,  by  a 
crowd  that  obstructed  his  '^lassage.  He  raised  his  eyes,  and 
saw  the  chief  vizier  wlio,  having  returned  from  the  divan, 
♦vas  catering  his  palace.  j  - 

2  Ortogi*ul  mingled  with  the  attendants;  and,  being  6U|)u 
{»osed  to  have  some  petition  for  the  vizier,  was  permitted  to 


enter, 
mired 


Chap.  1L 


NARRATIVE  PIECES). 


<^ 


enter.  He  suirered  the  spaciousness  of  the  apartments,  acf^ 
mired  the  walls  hung  with  golden  tapestry ,  and  the  flooni 
covered  with  silken  carpets ;  and  despised  the  simple  neat* 
ness  of  his  own  little  habitation.  %^.        ;  . 

3  "  Surely,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  this  palace  Is  the  seat  of 
iiappiness  ;  where  pleasure  succeeds  to  pleasure,  and  dis- 
content and  sorrow  can  have  no  admission.  Whatever  na- 
ture has  provided  for  the  delight  of  sense,  is  here  spread  foilh 
to  be  enjoyed.  What  can  mortals  hope  or  imagine,  which 
the  master  of  this  palace  has  not  obtained  ?  The  dishes  of 
luxury  cover  his  table !  the  voice  of  harmony  lulls  him  in  hi» 
bowers ;  he  breathes  the  fragrance  of  the  groves  of  Java^ 
and  sleeps  upon  the  down  of  tlie  cygnets  of  the  Ganges. 

4  He  speaks,  and  his  mandate  is  obeyed  ;  he  wishes,  anrl 
his  wish  is  gratified ;  all  whom  he  sees,  obey  him,  and  all 
whom  he  hears,  flatter  him.  How  different,  O,  Ortogrul, 
is  thy  condition,  who  art  doomed  to  the  perpetual  torments 
of  unsatisfied  desire;  and  who  hast  no  amusement  in  thjr 
power,  that  can  withhold  thee  from  thy  own  reflections* ! 

5  They  tell  thee  that  thou  art  wise;  but  what  does  wisdom 
avail  with  poverty  ?  None  will  flatter  the  poor ;  and  the  wise 
have  very  little  power  of  flattering  themselves.  That  man  is 
surely  the  most  wretched  of  the  sons  of  wretchedness,  who 
lives  with  his  own  faults  and  follies  always  before  him;  and 
who  has  none  to  reconcile  him  to  himself  by  praise,  and  vene- 
ration. I  have  long  sought  content,  and  have  not  found  it ; 
I  will  from  this  moment  endeavour  to  be  rich.'-'   ' 

6  Full  of  his  new  resolution,  he  shut  himself  in  his  cham- 
ber for  six  months,  to  deliberate  how  he  should  grow  rich. 
He  sometimes  purposed  to  olTer  himself  as  a  counsellor  to  one 
of  the  kings  of  India  ;  and  at  others  resolved  to  dig  for  dia- 
monds in  the  mines  of  Golconda, 

7  One  day,  after  some  hours  passed  in  violent  fluctuation 
of  opuiion,  sleep  insensibly  seized  him  in  his  chair.  Ho 
dreamed  that  he  was  ranging  a  desert  coimtry,  in  search  of 
some  one  that  might  teach  him  to  grow  rich ;  and,  as  he  stood 
on  the  top  of  a  hill,  shaded  with  cypress,  in  doubt  whither 
to  direct  his  steps,  his  father  appeared  on  a  sudden  standing: 
before  him.  "  Ortogrul,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  know  thy 
perplexity;  listen  to  thy  fatlier:  turn  thine  eyes  on  the  oppo- 
site mountain." 

8  Ortogrul  looked,  and  saw  a  torrent  tumbling  down  the 
rocks,  roaring  with  the  noise  of  thunder,  and  scatterkig  its 
i'oam  opt  the  impending  woods.  "Now,**  said  his  fa&er, 
"  heboid  the  valley  that  lies  betweea  the  hiUa*'^     Qrtognil 


l.iv;c 


¥m 


R 


3^ 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


looked,  and  espied  a  little  well,  out  of  which  issued  ft  small 
rivulet.  "Tell  me  now,"  said  his  father,  "dost  thou  wish 
for  sudden  affluence,  that  may  pour  upon  tiiee  lilic  the  moun- 
tain torrent ;  or  for  a  slow  and  gradual  incieaHe,  resembling 
the  rill  gliding  from  the  well  ?" 

9  **  Let  me  be  quickly  rich,"  said  Ortogrul;  "let  the 
golden  stream  be  quick  and  violent."  "  Look  around  thee," 
said  his  father,  "  once  again."  Oi-tognil  loolanl,  and  per- 
ceived the  channel  of  the  torrent  dry  and  duHty  ;  but  follow* 
ing  the  rivulet  from  the  well,  he  traced  it  to  a  wide  lake, 
which  the  supply,  slo"'  and  constant,  kept  alwnys  full.  4Ie 
awoke,  and  determined  to  grow  rich  by  silent  profit,  and  per- 
itevering  industry. 

10  Having  sold  his  patrimony,  he  engaged  in  niorchandiae ", 
and  in  twenty  years  purchased  lands,  on  which  he  raised  a 
house,  equal  in  sumptuousness  to  that  of  the  vizier;  to  this 
mansion  he  invited  all  the  ministers  of  pleasure,  expecting  to 
enjoy  all  the  felicity  which  he  had  imagined  r'lchcH  able  to  atlbrd. 
Leisure  soon  made  him  weary  of  himself,  and  lie  longed  to 
be  persuaded  that  he  was  great  and  hapj)y.     He  was  cour- 

I  teous  and  liberal ;    he  gave  all  that  approached  him  hopes 

of  pleasing  him,  and  all  who  should  please  him,  hopes  oi 
being  rewarded.  Every  art  of  praise  was  tried,  and  every 
•ource  of  adulatory  fiction  was  exhausted. 

11  Ortogrul  heard  his  flatterers  without  delight,  because 
he  found  himself  unable  to  believe  them.  His  own  heait  told 
him  its  frailties  ;  his  own  understanding  reproached  him 
with  his  faults.  "  How  long,"  said  he,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
"  have  I  been  labouring  in  vain  to  amass  wealth,  which  at 
last  is  useless !  Let  no  man  hereafter  wish  to  be  rich,  who  is 
already  too  wise  to  be  flattered."  on.  johnson. 

.     SECTION  VL 

The  Hill  of  Science. 
IN  that  season  of  the  year,  when  the  serenity  of  the  sky, 
"  Uie  various  fruits  which  cover  the  ground,  the  discoloured 
foliage  of  the  trees,  and  all  the  sweet,  hut  fading  graces  of 
inspiring  autumn,  open  the  mind  to  benevolence,  and  dispose 
it  for  contemplation,  I  was  wandering  in  a  beautiful  and  ro- 
mantic country,  till  curiosity  began  to  give  way  to  weariness; 
and  1  sat  down  on  the  fragment  of  a  rock  overgrown  with 
moss ;  where  the  rustling  of  the  falling  leaves,  the  dashing 
of  waters,  and  the  hum  of  the  distant  city,  soothed  my  mind 
tato  a  most  perfect  tranquillity ;  and  sleep  insensibly  stole 


■  ^k^' 


^■■-■j 


CUAP.     II. 


NARRATIVE  PIKCES. 


37 


njion  me,  as  I  was  indul^inu;  the  n'j^reealile  reveries,  which 
the  ohjects  arounH  me  naturally  inspired. 

2  I  immediately  fouiul  myself  in  a  vast  extended  plain,  in 
tlie  middle  of  which  arose  a  mountain,  higher  than  I  had  be- 
fore any  conception  of.  It  was  covered  with  a  inulfilude  of 
people,  chielly  youth  ;  many  of  whom  pressed  forward  with 
the  liveliest  expression  of  ardour  in  tlieir  countiMiance,  though 
the  way  was  in  many  places,  steep  and  dillicnlt. 

3  I  observed  those  who  had  hut  ju  t  he^ain  to  cHtnb  the 
hill,  thought  themselves  not  i'ur  from  th<.*  top;  but  as  they 
proceeded,  new  hills  were  continually  rising  to  their  view ; 
and  the  summit  of  the  highest  they  cotdd  In^fore  discern, 
seemed  but  the  foot  of  another,  till  the  moanta.a  at  length  ap- 
peared to  lose  itself  in  the  clouds. 

4  As  I  was  gazing  on  these  things  with  astonishment,  a 
friendly  instructer  suddenly  appeared  .  '*  The  mountain  be- 
fore thee,"  said  he,  "is  the  Hill  of  Science.  Oa  tlie  top  is 
the  temple  of  Truth,  whose  head  is  aI)ove  the  clouds,  and  a 
veil  of  pure  light  covers  her  face.  Observe  the  progress  of 
her  votaries  ;  be  silent  and  attentive." 

^»  6  After  I  had  noticed  a  variety  of  objects,  I  turned  my 
eyes  towards  the  multitudes  v,ho  were  dhnbing  the  steep  as- 
cent; and  observed  amongst  them  a  youth  of  a  livelv  look,  a 
piercing  eye,  and  something  fiery  and  irre<j;ular  in  all  [ns  mo- 
tions. His  name  was  Genius,  lie  darted  like  an  eagle  up 
the  mountain ;  and  left  his  companions  ga/'^ing  after  him  with 
envy  and  admiration  :  but  his  progress  was  unequal,  and  in- 
terrupted by  a  thousand  cnprices. 

6  When  Pleasure  warbled  iu4he  valley,  he  mingled  in  her 
train.  When  Pride  beckoned  towards  the  precipice,  he  ven- 
tured to  the  tottering  edge.  He  delighted  in  devious  and 
untried  paths ;  and  made  so  many  excursions  from  the  road, 
that  his  feebler  compan'ous  often  outstripped  him.  I  ob- 
served that  the  Muses  beheld  him  with  partiality  :  but  Truth 
often  frowned  and  turned  aside  her  face. 

7  While  Genius  was  thus  wnsting  his  strength  in  eccentric 
(lights,  I  saw  a  person  of  very  diiTerent  appearance,  named  Ap- 
plication. He  crept  along  with  a  slow  and  unremitting  pace, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  top  of  the  mountain,  patiently  removing 
every  stone  that  o!)slructed  his  way,  till  he  saw  most  of  those 
below  him,  who  had  at  first  derided  his  slo^v  and  toilsome 
progress. 

8  Indeed,  there  were  few  who  ascended  the  hill  >vith 
c(\}.m\  and  uninterrupted  steadiness ;  for,  besides  the  diUi- 


'1^  m 


Itiffr 


T) 


3S 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


I! 


cullies  of  the  way,  they  were  continually  solicited  to  turn 
aside  by  a  numerous  cro\vd  of  Appetites,  Passions,  and 
Pleasures,  whose  importunity,  when  once  complied  with, 
they  became  less  and  less  able  to  resist ;  and  though  they 
often  returned  to  tlie  path,  tlie  asperities  of  lhf3  road  were 
more  severely  felt ;  the  hill  appeared  more  steep  and  rug- 
ged ;  the  fruits,  which  were  wholesome  and  refreshing, 
semed  harsh  and  ill  lasted  ;  their  sight  grew  dim  ;  and  their 
feet  tript  at  every  little  obstruction. 

9  I  saw,  with  some  surprise,  that  the  Muses,  whose  bu- 
siness was  to  cheer  and  encourage  those  who  were  toiling 
up  the  ascent,  would  often  sing  in  tlie  bovvers  of  Pleasure, 
and  accompany  those  who  were  enticed  away  at  the  call  of 
the  Pa'aions.  They  accompanied  them,  however,  but  a  little 
way  ;  and  always  forsook  them  when  they  lost  sight  of 
the  hill.  The  tyrants  then  doubled  their  chains  upon  the 
unhappy  captives,  and  led  them  away,  without  resistance, 
to  the  cells  of  Ignorance,  or  the  mansions  of  Misery. 

10  Amongst  the  innumerable  seducei's,  who  were  endea- 
vouring^to  draw  away  the  votaries  of  'i'ruth  from  the  path  of 
science,  there  was  one,  so  little  foi'niidable  in  her  appeajv 
ance,  and  so  gentle  and  languid  in  ber  attempts,  that  I  shoulcl 
scarcely  have  taken  notice  of  her,  but  for  the  numbei's  she 
had  imperceptibly  loaded  with  her  chains. 

11  Indolence,  (for  so  she  was  called,)  far  from  proceeding 
to  open  hostilities,  did  not  attempt  to  turn  their  feet  out  of 
the  path,  but  contented  herseli'  with  retarding  their  pro- 
cess ;  and  the  purpose  she  could  iiot  force  them  to  abandon, 
she  persuaded  them  to  delaj^  Her  touch  had  a  power  like 
that  of  the  torpedo,  which  withered  the  strength  of  those 
who  came  within  its  ii  Ouencc.  Her  unhappy  captives  still 
turned  their  faces  tovvards  the  temple,  and  always  hoped  to 
arrive  there  ;  but  the  ground  seemed  to  slide  from  btmeath 
their  feet,  and  they  found  llfcniselves  at  the  bottom,  before 
they  suspected  they  had  changed  their  place. 

12  The  placid  serenity,  which  at  first  appeared  in  their 
countenance,  changed  by  degree>s  into  a  melancholy  languor, 
which  was  tinged  with  deeper  and  deeper  gloom,  as  they 
glided  down  the  stream  of  Insignificance  ;  a  dark  and  slug- 
gish water,  which  is  curled  by  no  breeze,  and  enlivened  by 
no  murmur,  till  it  falls  into  a  dead  sea,  where  startled  pas- 
sengers are  awakened  by  the  shock,  and  the  next  moment 
buried  in  the  gulf  of  Oblivion. 

23  Of  all  tho  unhappy  deserters  from  the  paths  of  Science, 


Chap.  II. 


NARRATIVE  PIECES. 


39 


^' 


none  seemed  less  able  to  return  than  the  followers  of  Indo- 
lence. The  captives  of  Appetite  and  Passion  would  often 
seize  the  moment  when  their  tyrants  were  languid  or  asleep, 
to  escape  from  their  enchantment ;  but  the  dominion  of  In- 
dolence was  constant  and  unreiflitted  ;  and  seldom  resisted, 
till  resistance  was  in  vain. 

14  After  contemplating  thrive  things,  T  turned  my  eyes 
towards  the  top  of  the  mountain,  where  the  air  was  always 
pure  and  exhilirating,  the  pnlh  shaded  with  laurels  and  ever- 
greens, and  the  effulgence  which  he?;nt;d  from  the  face  of 
Science  seemed  to  shed  a  glory  round  her  votaries.  Hap- 
py, said  I,  are  they  who  are  permitted  to  ascend  the  moun- 
tain! Rut  while  I  was  pronouncing  this  exclamation,  with 
uncommon  ardour,  T  snw,  standing  beside  me,  a  form  of  di- 
viner features,  and  a  more  benign  radiance. 

15  "  Happier,"  said  she,  **  are  they  whom  Virtue  conducts 
to  the  Mansions  of  Content !"  "  What,"  said  I,  '*  does  Vir- 
tue then  reside  in  the  vple  r'  **I  am  found,"  said  she,  "in the 
vale,  and  T  illuminate  the  mountai'i.  I  cheer  the  cottager 
at  his  toil,  and  inspire  the  sage  at  his  meditation.  I  mingle 
in  the  crowd  of  cities,  and  bless  the  hermit  in  his  ceil.  I 
have  a  temple  in  every  heart  that  owns  my  influence,  and  to 
him  that  wishes  for  me,  I  am  already  present.  Science 
may  raise  thee  to  eminence  ;  but  1  alone  can  guide  thee  to 
felicity!" 

16  While  Virtue  was  thus  speaking,  I  stretched  out  my 
arms  towards  her,  with  a  vehemence  which  broke  my  slum- 
ber. The  chill  dews  were  falling  around  me,  and  the  shades 
of  evening  stretched  over  the  landscape.  I  hastened  home- 
ward, and  resigned  the  night  to  silence  and  meditation. 


AIKIN. 


SECTION  VII. 


The  journey  of  a  day ;  a  picture  of  human  life. 

OBIDAH,  the  son  of  Abensina,  left  the  caravansera  early 
m  the  morning,  and  pursued  his  journey  through  the  plains 
of  Indostan.  He  was  fresh  and  vigorous  with  rest ;  he  was 
animated  with  hope  ;  he  was  incited  by  desire  ;  he  walked 
swiftly  forward  over  the  vallies,  and  saw  the  hills  gradually 
rising  before  him. 

2  As  he  passed  along,  his  ears  were  delighted  with  the 
morning  song  of  the  bird  of  paradise ;  he  was  fanned  by  the  lest 
fluttera  of  the  sinking  breeze,  and  sprinkled  with  dew  from 
groves  of  spices.     He  sometimes  contemplated  the  towering 


> 


40 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  « 


^ 


Height  of  the  oak,  monarch  of  the  hills ;  and  sometimes 
caught  the  gentle  fragrance  of  the  primrose,  eldest  daughter 
of  the  spring;  all  his  senses  were  gratified,  and  all  care  was 
banished  from  his  heart. 

3  Thus  he  went  on,  till  the  sun  approached  his  meridian, 
and  the  increasing  heat  preyed  upon  his  strength ,  he  then 
iooked  round  about  him  for  some  more  commodious  path. 
He  saw,  on  his  rsght  hand,  a  grove  iiat  seemed  to  wave  its 
shades  as  a  sign  of  invitation ;  he  entered  it,  and  found  the 
coolness  and  verdure  irresistibly  pleasant. 

4  He  did  not,  however,  foiget  whither  he  was  travelling; 
but  found  a  narrow  way,  bordered  with  floweis,  which  ap- 
peared to  have  tiie  same  dliection  with  the  main  road;  and 
was  pleased,  that,  by  this  happy  experiment,  he  had  found 
means  to  unite  pleasure  with  business,  and  to  gain  the  re- 
wards of  diligence  without  sulfering  its  fatigues, 

6  He,  therefore,  still  continuerl  to  walk  for  a  time,  with- 
out the  least  remission  of  his  ardour,  except  that  he  was 
sometimes  tempted  to  stop  by  the  music  of  the  birds,  which 
the  heat  had  assembled  iii  the  shade  ;  and  sometimes  amused 
himself  with  plucking  the  flowers  that  covered  the  banks  on 
each  side,  or  the  fruits  that  hung  upon  the  branches. 

6  At  last,  the  green  path  began  to  decline  from  its  first 
tendency,  and  to  wind  among  hills  and  thickets,  cooled  with 
fountains,  and  murmuring  with  waterfalls.  Here  Obidah 
paused  for  a  time,  and  began  to  consider  whether  it  were 
longer  safe  to  forsake  the  known  and  common  track  ;  but 
remembering  that  the  heat  was  now  in  its  greatest  violence, 
and  that  the  plain  was  dusty  and  uneven,  he  resolved  to  pur- 
sue the  new  path,  which  he  supposed  only  to  make  a  few 
meanders,  in  compliance  with  the  varieties  of  the  ground, 
and  to  end  at  last  in  the  common  road. 

7  Having  thus  calmed  his  solicitude,  he  renewed  his  pace, 
though  he  suspected  that  he  was  not  gaining  ground.  This 
uneasiness  of  his  mind  inclined  him  to  lay  hold  on  every  new 
object,  and  give  way  to  every  sensation  that  might  soothe  or 
divert  him.  He  listened  to  every  echo;  he  mounted  every 
hill  for  a  fresh  prospect;  he  turned  aside  to  every  cascade; 
and  pleased  himself  with  tracing  the  course  of  a  gentle  river 
that  rolled  among  the  trees,  and  watered  a  large  region  with 
innumerable  circumvolutions. 

8  In  these  amusements,  the  hours  passed  away  unaccount- 
ed ;  his  deviations  had  perplexed  his  memory,  and  he  knew 
apt  towards   what  point  to  travel,     lie  stood  pensive  and 


Chap.  II. 


NARllATIYE  PIECES. 


4f 


confused,  afraid  to  ^o  forward,  lest  he  should  go  wrong,  yet 
conscious  that  the  time  of  loitering  was  now  past.  While  lie 
was  thus  tortured  with  uncertainty,  the  sky  .was  overspread 
with  clouds ;  the  day  vanished  from  hefore  him ;  and  a  sud- 
den tempest  gathered  round  his  head. 

9  lie  was  now  roused  hy  his  danQ;er,  to  a  quick  and  pain- 
ful rememhrance  of  his  folly ;  he  now  saw  how  happiness  is 
lost  when  ease  is  consulted  •  he  lamented  the  unmanly  im- 
patience that  prompted  him  to  seek  shelter  in  the  grove ;  and 
despised  the  petty  curiosity  that  led  him  on  from  trifle  to  tri- 
fle. While  he  was  thus  reflecting,  the  air  grew  blacker,  '•r.d 
a  clap  of  thunder  broke  his  meditation. 

10  He  now  resolved  to  do  what  yet  remained  in  his  power, 
to  tread  back  the  ground  which  he  had  passed,  and  try  to  find 
some  issue  where  the  wood  mii?ht  open  into  the  plaiu.  He 
prostrated  him.self  on  the  ground,  and  recommended  his  life 
to  the  Lord  of  Nature.  He  rose  with  confidence  and  tran- 
quillity, and  pressed  on  with  resolution.  The  beasts  of  the 
desert  were  in  motion,  and  on  every  hand  were  heard  the 
mingled  howls  of  rage  and  fear,  and  ravage  and  expiration. 
All  the  horrors  of  darkness  and  solitude  surrounded  him : 
tiie  wind  roared  in  the  woods  ;  and  the  torrents  tumbled  from 
the  hills. 

11  Thus  forlorn  and  distressed,  he  wandered  through  the 
wild,  without  knowing  whither  he  was  going,  or  whether  he 
was  every  moment  drawing  nearer  to  safety,  or  to  destruc- 
tion. At  length,  not  fear,  but  labour,  began  to  overcome 
him ;  his  breath  grew  short,  and  his  knees  trembled ;  and 
he  was  on  the  point  of  lying  down  in  resignation  to  his  fate, 
when  he  beheld,  through  the  brambles,  the  glimmer  of  a 
taper. 

12  He  advanced  towards  the  light,  and  finding  that  it  pro- 
ceeded from  the  cottage  of  a  hermit,  he  called  humbly  at  the 
door,  and  obtained  admission.  The  old  man  set  before  him 
such  provisions  as  he  had  collected  for  himself,  on  which 
Obidah  fed  with  eagerness  and  gratitude. 

13  When  the  repast  was  over,  "Tell  me,"  said  the  her- 
mit, "  by  what  chance  thou  hast  been  brought  hither?  I  have 
been  now  twenty  years  an  inhabitant  of  the  wilderness,  in 
which  I  never  savv  a  man  before."  Obidah  then  related  the 
occurrences  of  his  journey,  without  any  concealment  or 
palliatioif. 

14  "  Son,"  said  the  hermit,  <<  let  the  errors  and  follies, 
the  dangers  and  escape  of       s    ay,  sink  deep  into  thy  heart. 

«*        ■ 

■  -  D2 


>:'1|? 


mm  ■ 


id 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


r » 


' 


•  I 


Remember,  my  son,  that  human  life  is  the  journey  of  a  day 
We  rise  in  the  morning  of  youth,  full  of  vigour,  and  full  of 
expectation;    we  set    forward  with  spirit    and   hope,  with 
gaiety  and  with  diligence,  and  travel  on  a  while  in  the  direct 
voa^  of  piety,  towards  the  mansions  of  rest. 

15  In  a  short  time,  we  remit  our  fervour  and  endeavour 
to  find  some  mitigation  of  our  duty,  and  some  more  easy 
means  of  obtaining  tne  same  end.  We  then  relax  our  vi- 
gour, and  resolve  no  longer  to  be  terrified  with  crimes  at  a 
distance ;  but  rely  upon  our  own  constancy,  and  venture  to 
approach  what  we  resolve  never  to  touch.  We  thus  enter 
the  bowers  of  ease,  and  repose  in  the  shades  of  securit}^;  —  • 
"TB  Here  the  heait  softens,  and  vigilance  subsides;  we  are 
then  willing  to  enquii-e  wnetner  another  advance  cannot  be 
made,  and  whether  we  may  not,  at  least,  turn  our  eyes  upon 
the  gardens  of  pleasure.  We  approach  them  with  scruple 
and  hesitation;  we  enter  them,  but  enter  timorous  and 
trembling ;  and  always  hope  to  pass  through  them  without 
losing  the  road  of  virtue,  which,  for  a  while,  we  keep  in 
our  sight,  and  to  which  we  purpose  to  return.  But  tempta- 
tion succeeds  temptation,  and  one  compliance  prepares  us 
for  anotlier;  we  in  time  lose  the  happiness  of  innocence, 
and  solace  our  disquiet  with  sensual  gratifications. 

17  By  degrees,  \^  e  let  fall  the  remembrance  of  our  original 
mtention,  and  quit  the  only  adcMuate  object  of  rational  de- 
sire. We  entangle  ourselves  in  business,  immerge  ourselves 
in  luxury,  and  rove  through  the  labyrinths  of  inconstancy ; 
till  the  dai'kness  of  old  age  begins  to  invade  us,  and  disease 
and  anxiety,  obstruct  our  way.  We  then  look  back  upon 
our  lives  with  horror,  witii  riorrow,  with  repentance;  and 
wish,  but  too  often  vdin*y  wisn,  that  we  had  not  forsaken 
she  ways  of  virtue. 

18  Happy  are  they,  my  son,  wno  snail  learn  from  thy  ex- 
ample, not  to  despair ;  but  sliall  remember,  that,  though 
me  day  is  past,  and  tneir  strentrth  is  wasted,  tbrre  yet  re- 
iiains  one  effort  to  be  made  *  trat  reiormation  is  never  hope- 
ess,  nor  sincere  endeavours  ever  unassisted ;  that  the  wan 
lerer  may  at  length  return,  after  all  his  errors ;  and  that  he 
who  implores  strejigth  and  cotn'age  from  above,  shall  find 
danger  and  difficulty  give  way  before  him.  Go  now,  my 
«on,  to  thy  repose ;  commit  tbvsel'  to  the  care  of  C')mnipo- 
.ence,  and  when  the  niorning  calls  again  to  toil,  begin  anew 
thy  journey  and  thy  life."  dr.  johnson. 


•-';•*(*.• 


¥  ■ 


Chap.  III.  DIDACTIC  PIECES.  43 

CHAPTER  III. 
DIDACTIC  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

TJie  importance  of  a  good  Editcatioiu 

1  CONSIDER  a  human  soul,  without  education,  like 
marble  in  the  quarry :  which  shows  none  of  its  inherent 
beauties,  until  the  skill  of  the  polisher  fetches  out  the  co- 
lours.  makes  the  surface  shine,  and  discovers  every  orna- 
inental  cloudpspeV^and  vein,  that  runs  through  the  body  of 
it.  Education,  after  the  same  manner,  when  it  works  upoa 
a  noble  mind,  draws  out  to  view  every  latent  virtue  and  per- 
fection, which,  ^vithout  such  helps,  are  never  able  ^o  make 
their  appearance. 

2  If  my  reader  will  give  me  leave  to  change  the  allusion  so 
soon  upon  him,  I  shall  make  use  of  the  same  instance  to  il- 
lustrate the  force  of  education,  which  Aristotle  has  brought 
to  explain  his  doctrine  of  substantial  forms,  when  he  tells  us 
that  a  statue  lies  hid  in  a  block  of  marble  ;  and  that  the  art 
of  the  statuary  only  clears  away  the  siipertluous  matter,  and 
removes  the  rubbish.  The  figure  is  in  the  stone,  and  the 
sculptor  only  finds  it. 

3  What  sculpture  is  to  a  block  of  marble,  education  is  to  a 
human  soul.  The  philosopher,  the  saint,  or  the  hero,  the' 
wise,  the  good,  or  tlie  great  man,  very  often  lies  hid  and 
concealed  in  a  plebeian,  which  a  proper  education  might  have 
disinterred,  and  brought  to  light.  I  am  therefore  much  de- 
lighted with  reading  the  accounts  ot'  e^avase  nations ;  and  with 
contemplating  those  virtues  wliich  are  wild  and  uncultivated : 
to  see  courage  exerting  itself  in  fierceneBS,  resolution  in  obsti- 
nacy, wisdom  in  cunning,  patience  in  sullenness  and  despair. 

4  Men's  passions  operate  variously,  and  appear  in  difierent 
kinds  of  actions,  according  as  they  are  more  or  less  rectifiad 
and  swayed  by  reason.  When  one  liears  of  negroes,  who, 
upon  the  death  of  their  masters,  or  up<jn  changing  their  sei^ 
vice,  hang  themselves  upon  tiie  next  Vecy  as  it  sometimes 
happens  in  our  American  planutious,  who  can  forbear  ad 
miring  their  fidelity,  though  it  expresses  itself  in  so  dreadful 
a  manner  I 

6  What  might  not  that  savage  greatness  of  soul,  which  ap- 
pears in  these  poor  wretches  on  many  occasions,  be  raised  t<>, 
were  it  rightly  cultivated  ]    And  what  colour  ef  excuse  eaui 


44  THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part.  I, 

there  b«,  for  the  contempt  with  which  \se  treat  this  part  of 
our  species,  tirat  we  should  not  put  them  upon  the  common 
footinf?  of  iuniianity  ;  that  we  should  only  set  an  insignifi- 
cant fine  upon  the  man  who  murders  them  ;  nay,  that  we 
should,  as  much  as  in  us  lies,  cut  them  off*  from  the  pros- 
pects oi*  happiness  in  another  world,  as  well  as  in  this ;  and 
deny  them  that  which  we  look  upon  as  the  proper  means  for 

attaining  it  ?  i     .         . 

6  It  is  therefore  an  unspeakable  blessing,  to  be  born  m 
those  pails  of  the  world  where  wisdom  and  knowledge 
flourish  ;  though,  it  must  be  confessed,  there  are,  even  in 
these  parts,  several  poor  uninstructed  persons,  who  are  but 
Me  above  the  inhabitants  of  those  nations  of  which  I  have 
been  here  speaking ;  as  those  who  have  had  the  advantages 
of  a  more  liberal  education,  rise  above  one  another  by  several 
diflerem  degrees  of  perfection. 

7  For,  to  return  to  our  statue  in  the  block  of  marble,  we 
see  it-soiiietimes  only  begun  to  be  chipped,  sometimes  rough 
hewn,  and  but  just  sketched  into  a  human  figure;  some- 
times we  see  the  man  appearing  distinctly  in  all  his  limbs 
and  features ;  sometimes,  we  find  the  figure  wrought  up  to 
great  elegancy ;  but  seldom  meet  with  any  to  which  the 
hand  of  a  Phidias  or  a  Praxiteles,  could  not  give  several 
nice  touches  and  finishings.  addison. 

SECTION  II. 

On  Gratitude, 

THERE  is  not  a  more  pleasing  exercise  of  the  mind, 
than  gratitude.  It  is  accompanied  with  so  great  Inward  sa- 
tisfaction, that  the  duty  is  sufficiently  rewarded  by  the^per- 
formance.  It  is  not,  like  the  practice  of  many  other  virtues, 
difficult  and  painful,  but  attended  with  so  much  pleasure,  that 
were  there  no  positive  command  which  enjoined  it,  nor  any 
recompense  laid  up  for  it  hereafter,  a  generous  mind  would 
indulge  in  it,  for  the  natural  gratification  which  it  affords. 

2  If  gratitude  is  due  from  man  to  man,  how  much  more 
from  man  to  his  Maker?  The  Supreme  Being,  dees  not  only 
coniier  upon  us  those  bounties  which  proceed  more  immediate- 
ly from  his  own  hand,  but  orfn  those  benefits  which  are  con- 
veyed to  us  by  others.  F.v< :  v  blessing  we  enjoy,  by  what 
means  soever  it  may  be  conferred  upon  us,  is  the  gift  of  him 
who  is  the  crreat  Author  of  good,  and  the  Father  of  mercies. 

3  If  gratitude,  wlien  exerted  towards  one  another,  uatu- 
rallv  produces  a  very  pleasing  sensation  in  the  mind  of  a 


/ 


S 


Chap.  HI. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


45 


grateful  iran,  it  exalts  tiie  soul  into  rapture  when  it  is  em- 
ployed on  this  cfreat  ohject  of  gi'atitude ;  on  this  beneficent 
Being,  who  has  given  us  every  thing  we  already  possess,  and 
from  whom  we  expect  every  thing  we  yet  hope  for.   addison. 

SECTION  III. 

On  Forgiveness. 

THE  most  plain  and  natural  sentiments  of  equity  concur 
with  divine  authority,  to  enforce  the  duty  of  forgiveness. 
IjCt  him  who  has  never  in  his  life  done  wrong,  be  allow- 
ed the  privilege  of  remaining  inexorable.  But  let  such  as 
are  conscious  of  frailties  and  crimes,  consider  forejiveness  as 
a  debt  which  they  owe  to  others.  Common  failings  are  the 
strongest  lesson  of  mutual  forbearance.  Were  this  virtue 
unknown  among  men,  order  and  comfort,  peace  and  repose, 
would  be  strangers  to  human  life. 

2  Injuries  retaliated  according  to  the  exorbitant  measure 
which  passion  prescribes,  would  excite  resentment  in  return. 
The  injured  person  would  become  the  injurer  ;  and  thus 
wrongs,  retaliations,  and  fresh  injuries,  would  circulate  in 
endless  succession,  till  the  world  was  rendered  a  field  of  blood. 

3  Of  all  the  passions  which  invade  the  human  breast,  re- 
venge is  the  most  direful.  When  allowed  to  reign  with  full 
dominion,  it  is  more  than  sufficient  to  poison  the  few  plea- 
sures  which  remain  to  man  in  his  present  state.  How  much 
soever  a  pei'son  may  sujfer  from  injustice,  he  is  always  in 
hazard  of  sulfering  more  from  the  prosecution  of  revenge. 
The  violence  of  an  enemy  cannot  inflict  what  is  equal  to  Qie 
torment  he  creates  to  himself,  by  means  of  the  fierce  and 
desperate  passions  which  he  allows  to  rage  in  his  soul. 

4  Those  evil  spirits  that  inhabit  the  regions  of  misery,  are 
represented  as  delighthig  in  revenge  and  cruelty.  But  all 
that  is  great  and  good  in  the  universe,  is  on  the  side  of  clem- 
ency and  mercy.  The  Almighty  Ruler  of  the  world,  though 
for  ages  offended  by  the  unrighteousness,  and  insulted  by  the 
impiety  of  men,  is  "  long-sutfering  and  slow  to  anger." 

5  His  Son,  when  he  appeared  in  our  nature,  exhibited, 
both  in  his  life  and  his  death,  the  most  illustrious  example 
of  forgiveness  which  the  world  ever  beheld.  If  we  look  m- 
to  the  history  of  mankind,  we  shall  find  that,  in  every  age, 
they  who  have  been  respected  as  worthy,  or  admired  as 
great  have  been  distinguished  for  this  virtue. 

6  Revenge  dwells  in  llitle  minds.  A  nol»le  and  magnani- 
flious  spirit,  is  always  superior  to  it.     It  suffers  not,  from 


46 


THE  KNGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


the  injuries  of  men  those  severe  shocks  which  others  feel. 
Collected  within  itself,  it  stands  unmoved  by  their  impotent 
assaults ;  and,  with  generous  pity,  rather  than  with  anger, 
looks  down  on  their  unworthy  cenduct.  It  has  been  truly 
said,  that  the  greatest  man  on  earth  can  no  sooner  commit  an 
injury,  than  a  good  man  can  make  himself  greater,  by  for 
giving  it.  BLAIR. 

SECTION  IV., 

J\fotives  to  the  practice  of  Gentleness, 

TO  promote  the  virtue  of  gentleness,  we  ought  to  view  our 
character  with  an  impartial  eye ;  and  to  learn,  from  our  own 
failings,  to  gfive  that  indulgence  which  in  our  turn  we  claim. 
It  is  pride  which  fills  the  world  with  so  much  harshness  and 
severity  In  the  fulness  of  self-estimation,  we  forget  what 
we  are.  We  claim  attentions  to  which  we  are  not  entitled. 
We  are  rigorous  to  offences,  as  if  we  had  never  offended ; 
unfeeling  to  distress,  as  if  we  knew  not  what  it  was  to  suffer. 
From  those  airy  regions  of  pride  and  folly,  let  us  descend  to 
our  proper  level. 

2  Let  us  survey  the  natural  equality  on  which  Providence 
has  placed  man  with  man,  and  reflect  on  the  infirmities  com- 
mon to  all.  If  the  reflection  on  natural  equality  and  mutual 
offences,  be  insufficient  to  prompt  humanity,  let  us  at  least 
remember  what  we  are  in  the  sight  of  our  Creator.  Have  we 
none  of  that  forbearance  to  give  one  another,  which  we  all  so 
earnestly  entreat  from  heaven  ?  Can  we  look  for  clemency 
or  gentleness  from  our  Judge,  when  we  are  so  backward  to 
show  it  to  our  own  brethren  ? 

3  Let  us  also  accustom  ourselves  to  reflect  on  the  small 
moment  of  those  things,  which  are  the  usual  incentives  to 
violence  and  contention.  In  the  ruffled  and  angry  hour,  we 
view  every  appearance  through  a  false  medium.  The  most 
inconsiderable  point  of  interest,  or  honour,  swells  into  a  mo- 
mentous object;  and  the  slightest  attack  seems  to  threaten 
immediate  ruin. 

4  But  afler  passion  or  pride  has  sr/bsided,  we  look  around 
in  vain  for  the  mighty  mischiefs  v  e  dreaded.  The  fabric, 
which  our  disturbed  imagination  had  reared,  totally  disap- 
pears. But  though  the  cause  of  contention  has  dwindled 
away,  its  consequences  remain.  We  have  alienated  a  friend  ; 
we  have  imbittered  an  enemy ;  we  have  sown  the  seeds  of 
future  suspicion,  malevolence,  or  disarust. 

6  Let  us  suspend  our  violence  for  a  moment,  when  causes 


Chap.  III. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


4r 


of  discord  occur.  Let  us  anticipate  that  period  of  coolness, 
which,  of  itself,  will  soon  arrive.  Let  us  reflect  how  little 
we  have  any  prospect  of  gaining  by  fierce  contention ;  but 
how  much  of  tne  true  happiness  of  life  we  are  certain  of  throw- 
ing away.  Easily,  and  from  the  smallest  chink,  the  bitter 
waters  of  strife  are  let  forth ;  but  their  course  cannot  be  fore- 
seen; and  he  seldom  fails  of  suffering  most  from  their  poi- 
sonous effect,  who  first  allowed  them  to  flow.  blair. 

SECTION  V. 

A  suspicious  Temper  the  source  of  J\Iise^ij  to  its  Possessor. 

AS  a  suspicious  spirit  is  the  source  of  many  crimes  and 
calamities  in  the  world,  so  it  is  the  spring  of  certain  misery 
to  the  person  who  indulges  it.  His  friends  will  be  few  ;  and 
small  will  be  his  comfort  in  tliose  whom  he  possesses.  Be- 
lieving others  to  be  his  enemies,  he  will  of  course  make  them 
such.  Let  his  caution  be  ever  so  great,  the  asperity  of  his 
thoughts  will  often  break  out  in  his  behaviour ;  and  in  return 
for  suspecting  and  hating,  he  will  incur  suspicion  and  hatred. 

2  Besides  the  external  evils  which  he  draws  upon  himself, 
arising  from  alienated  friendship,  broken  confidence,  and 
open  enmity,  the  suspicious  temper  itself  is  one  of  the  worst 
evils  which  any  man  can  sufler.  If  "  in  all  fear  there  is  tor- 
ment," how  miserable  must  be  his  state,  who,  by  living  iii 
perpetual  jealousy,  lives  in  perpetual  dread ! 

3  Looking  upon  himself  to  be  surrounded  with  spies,  ene- 
mies, and  designing  men,  he  is  a  stranger  to  reliance  and 
trust.  He  knows  not  to  whom  to  open  himself.  He  dresses 
his  countenance  in  forced  smiles,  wliile  his  heart  throbs 
within  from  apprehensions  of  secret  treachery.  Hence  fret- 
fulness  and  ill  humour,  disgust  at  the  world,  and  all  the 
painful  sensations  of  an  irritated  and  imbittered  mind. 

4  So  numerous  and  great  are  the  evils  arising  from  a  sus- 
picious disposition,  tnat,  of  the  two  extremes,  it  is  more  eli- 
gible to  expose  ourselves  to  occasional  disadvantage  from 
thinking  too  well  of  others,  than  to  suffer  continual  misery  by 
thinking  always  ill  of  them.  It  is  better  to  be  sometimes 
imposed  upon,  than  never  to  trust.  Safety  is  purchased  at 
too  dear  a  rate,  when,  in  order  to  secure  it,  we  are  obliged 
to  be  always  clad  in  armour,  and  to  live  In  perpetual  hos- 
lility  with  our  fellows. 

^  This  is,  for  the  sake  of  living,  to  deprive  ourselves  of  the 
comfort  of-  life.  The  man  of  candour  enjoys  his  situation, 
whatever  it  is,  with  cheerfulness  and  peace.     Prudence  d^ 


.;a-.:|5. 


4ft 


THE  ENCLISIT  READKll.         Part  f. 


rocts  his  intercourse  with  the  world :  and  no  black  suspicions 
haunt  his  hours  oC  rest.  Acrustonied  to  vww  the  characters 
of  his  neignbours  in  the  most  lavonrahle  liu:ht,  he  is  like  one 
who  dwells  amidst  those  heautiful  scenes  ot  nature,  on  which 
the  eye  rests  with  pleaMiire. 

6  Whereas  the  suspicious  man,  hnvinff  his  imacjination 
filled  with  all  the  shocking  forms  of  Human  falsehood,  de- 
ceit, and  treachery  resembles  the  traveller  in  the  wilderness, 
who  discerns  no  o^jects  around  him,  but  such  as  are  either 
dreary  or  terribh  ;  caverns  that  yawn,  serpents  that  hiss, 
and  beasts  ol  prey  that  howl.  blaiu. 

SECTION  VI. 

Comforts  of  Religion. 

THERE  are  many  who  have  passed  the  age  of  youth  and 
Deauty;  who  have  resigned  the  pleasures  of  that  smiling  sea- 
son; who  begin  to  decline  into  the  vale  of  years,  impaired 
in  their  health,  depressed  in  their  fortunes,  stript  of  their 
friends,  their  children,  and  perhaps  still  more  tender  con- 
nexions. What  resource  can  this  world  afford  them?  It 
presents  a  dark  and  dreary  waste,  through  which  there  does 
not  issue  a  single  ray  of  comfort. 

2  Every  delusive  prospect  of  ambition  is  now  at  an  end  ; 
long  experience  of  mankind,  an  experience  very  different 
from  what  thv>  ope.,  and  generous  soul  of  youth  had  fondly 
dreamt  of,  has  rendered  the  heart  almost  inaccessible  to  new 
friendships.  The  principal  sources  of  activity  are  taken 
aviray,  when  those  for  v/hom  we  labour  are  cut  off  from  us  ; 
those  who  animated,  and  who  sweetened  all  the  toils  of  life. 

3  Where  then  can  the  soul  find  refuge,  but  in  the  bosom 
of  Religion?  There  she  is  admitted  to  those  prospects  of 
Providence  and  futurity,  which  alone  can  warm  and  fill  the 
heart.  I  speaK  nere  of  such  as  retain  the  feelings  of  hu- 
manity; whom  misfortunes  have  softened,  and  perhaps  ren- 
dered more  oelicately  sensible ;  not  ol  such  as  possess  that 
stupid  insensibility,  which  some  are  pleased  to  dignify  with 
the  name  of  Pnilosophy. 

4  It  might  therefore  be  exper^^^d.  that  those  philosophers, 
who  think  they  stand  in  no  nee-  'uemselves  of  the  assistance 
of  religion  to  syoport  their  virtue,  anvl  who  neve  feel  the 
want  of  its  consolations,  would  yet  have  the  humanity  to 
consider  the  very  different  situation  of  tlie  rest  of  mankind  ; 
and   not  endeavour  to  di^prive  them  of  uliat  liabit,  at  leasts 


^' 


Chap.  III. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


49 


if  they  will  not  allow  it  to  be  nature,  has  made  necessary  to 
their  morals  and  to  their  happiness.  » 

6  It  might  be  expected,  that  humanity    would    prevent 


and  teanng  irom  inem  men*  only  remammg  comtort.  J 
attempt  to  ridicule  religion  may  be  agreeable  to  some,  by  re- 
lieving them  from  restraint  upon  their  pleasures;  and  may 
render  others  very  miserable,  by  making  them  doubt  those 
truths,  in  which  they  were  most  deeply  interested ;  but  it  can 
convey  real  good  and  happiness  to  no  one  individual. 


GREGOllY. 


SECTION  VII. 


Diffidence  of  our  Abilities,  a  mark  of  Wisdom. 

IT  is  a  sure  indication  of  good  sense,  to  be  diffident  of  it. 
We  then,  and  not  till  then,  are  growing  wise,  when  we  l)e- 
gin  to  discern  how  weak  and  unwise  we  are.  An  absolute 
perfection  of  understanding,  is  impossible :  he  makes  the 
nearest  approaches  to  it,  who  has  the  sense  to  discern,  and 
the  humility  to  acknowledge,  its  imperfections. 

2  Modesty  always  sits  gracefully  upon  youth:  it  covers 
i\  multitude  of  faults,  and  doubles  the  lustre  of  every  virtue 
which  it  seems  to  hide :  the  perfections  of  men  being  like 
those  flowers  which  appear  more  beautiful,  when  their  leaver 
are  a  little  contracted  and  folded  up,  than  when  they  are  full 
blown,  and  display  themselves,  without  any  reserve,  to  tlie 

view.  '    ■   ■^■"i?  -I  ;    :       >.  ;    ^\^.; 

3  We  are  some  of  us  very  fond  of  knowledge,  and  apt  to 
value  ourselves  upon  any  proficiency  in  the  sciences ;  one  sci- 
ence, however,  there  is,  worth  more  than  all  the  rest;  and 
that  is,  the  science  of  living  well ;  which  shall  remain,  when 
"tongues  shall  cease,"  and  "knowledge  shall  vanish  away." 

4  As  to  new  notions,  and  new  doctrines,  of  which  this  age 
is  very  fruitful,  the  time  will  come,  when  we  shall  have  no 
pleasure  in  them :  nay,  the  time  shall  come,  when  they  shall 
be  exploded,  and  would  have  been  forgotten,  if  they  had  not 
been  preserved  in  those  excellent  bool<^,  which  contain  a 
confutation  of  them ;  like  insects  preserved  for  ages  in  aiit- 
ber,  which  othenvise  would  soon  have  returned  to  tiie  com- 
mon mass  of  things. 

5  But  a  firm  belief  of  Christianity,  and  a  practice  suitable 
to  it,  will  support  and  invigorate  the  mind  to  the  last;  and 
ivinst  of  all.  at  last  at  that  important  hour,  Vvhirh  must  ilt*- 


KO 


ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


iifl 


clde  our  hopes  and  apprehensions;  and  the  wisdom  which, 
like  our  Saviour,  coineth  from  al)ovo,  will,  tliroiigli  hia 
merits,  brinsf  us  thither.  All  our  otlier  sluiiies  and  pui-suits, 
however  different,  ought  to  be  subservient  to,  and  centre  in, 
this  grand  point,  tlie  pursuit  of  eternal  happiness,  by  beiiis,' 
good  in  ourselves,  and  useful  to  the  world.  seed. 

SECTION  vrii. 

On  the  importance  of  Order  in  the  distribnlion  of  our  Time 
TIME  we  ought  to  consider  as  a  sacred  tnist,  committed 
to  us  by  God :  of  which  we  are  now  the  depositoiies,  and 
are  to  render  an  account  at  the  last.  That  portion  of  it  which 
he  has  allotted  to  us,  is  intended  portly  lor  the  concerns  of 
this  world,  partly  for  those  of  the  next.  Let  each  of  tliese 
occupy,  in  the  distribution  of  our  time,  that  space  which 
properly  belong  to  it. 

2  Let  not  the  hours  of  hospitality  and  pleasure  interfere 
with  the  discharge  of  our  necessary  aHairs  ;  and  let  not  what 
we  call  necessary  affairs,  encroach  upon  the  time  which  is  due 
to  devotion.  iTo  every  thing  there  is  a  season,  and  a  time 
for  every  purpose  under  the  heaven.  If  v/e  delay  till  to- 
morrow what  ought  to  be  done  to-day,  we  overcharge  the 
morrow  with  a  burden  which  belongs  not  to  it.  We  load  the 
wheels  of  time,  and  preveiit  them  from  tarrying  us  along 
smoothly.  '  ^  ' 

3  He  who  every  morning  plans  the  transactions  of  the  day, 
and  follows  out  that  plan,  carries  on  a  thread  which  will 
guide  him  through  the  labyniith  of  the  most  busy  life.  The 
orderly  arrangement  of  his  time,  is  like  a  ray  of  Hght,  which 
darts  itself  through  all  his  aHairs.  But  where  no  plan  is  laid, 
where  the  disposal  of  time  is  surrendered  merely  to  the  chajuce 
of  incidents,  all  things  lie  huddled  together  in  one  chaos, 
which  admits  neither  of  distribution  nor  review. 

4  The  first  requisite  for  introducing  order  into  the  manage- 
ment of  time,  is  to  be  impressed  with  a  just  sense  of  its 
value.  Let  us  coasider  weU  how  much  depends  upon  it,  and 
how  fast  it  flies  away.  The  bulk  of  men  are  in  nothing  more 
capricious  and  inconsistent,  than  in  their  appreciation  of  time. 
"When  they  think  of  it,  as  the  measure  of  their  continuance 
on  earth,  they  highly  prize  it,  and  with  the  greatest  anxiety, 
seek  to  lengthen  it  out. 

6  But  when  they  view  it  in  separate  parcels,  they  appear 
to  hold  it  in  contempt,  and  squander  it  with  inconsic  arate 
profusion.     "While  tliey  ccmplain  that  life  is  short,  th»  f  are 


Chap.  HI. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


51 


often  wi-^hiri^  its  (UflTcrtMit  periods  at  an  end.  Covetous  of 
cvei-j'  other  possession,  of  time  only  they  are  prodigal.  They 
allow  every  idle  miin  to  be  master  of  this  property,  and  make 
every  frivolous  occupation  welcome  that  can  help  them  to 
conaume  it. 

6  Amonfi^  those  who  are  so  careless  of  time,  it  is  not  to  be 
expected  that  order  should  be  observed  in  its  distribution. 
lint,  by  this  fatal  neglect,  how  many  matierials  of  severe  and 
liistirif^  regret  are  tliey  layinar  up  in  store  for  themselves  ! 
'I'he  time  which  they  suH'er  tn  pass  away  in  the  midst  of  con- 
fusion, bitter  repeiitaMce  seeks  afterwards  in  vain  to  recall. 
VV  [lat  was  oniittt'd  to  l)e  done  at  itii  proper  moment,  arises  to 
he  the  torment  of  some  future  season.         -v'*''*'  ".»«**«» 

7  iVlanhood  is  dis'^racrd  l)y  the  consequences  of  neglected 
youth.  Old  a«>e,  opprej^sed  l)y  cares  that  belonged  to  a  for- 
mer period,  labours  under  a  burden  not  its  own.  At  the 
cl();:e  of  life,  the  dyinjq^  man  beholds  with  anguish  that  his 
days  are  finishing",  when  his  preparation  for  eternity  is  hardly 
romtnenced.  Such  are  the  eftects  of  a  disorderly  waste  of 
lime,  throuj^h  not  nttendinp:  to  its  value.  Every  thing  in  the 
life  of  such  persons  is  misplaced.  Nothing  is  performed 
iu*ight,  from  not  being'  performed  in  due  season. 

8  I5ut  he  who  is  orderly  in  the  distribution  of  his  time, 
takes  the  proper  nietliod  of  escaping  those  manifold  evils. 
He  is  juslly  said  to  redeem  the  time.  By  proper  manage- 
ment he  proloiujs  it.  He  lives  much  in  little  space;  more 
in  a  few  years,  than  others  do  in  many.  He  can  live  to  God 
and  Ins  own  soul,  and  at  the  same  time,  attend  to  all  the 
lawful  interests  of  the  present  world.  He  looks  back  on  the 
past,  and  provides  for  the  future.  J''  'i  ■  ■■•■  •  "^^    '■ 

9  He  catches  and  anests  the  hours  as  they  fly.  They 
are  marked  dowfi  for  useful  purposes,  and  their  memory  re- 
mains. AVhereas  tiioae  hours  fleet  by  the  man  of  confusion, 
like  a  shadow.  His  days  and  years  are  either  blanks,  of 
which  he  has  no  remembrance,  or  they  are  filled  up  with  so 
confused  and  irrej^ular  a  succession  of  unfinished  transactions, 
that  though  he  remembers  he  has  been  busy,  yet  he  can 
ghre  no  account  of  the  business  which  has  employed  him. 

•Sfifj*'?^^M?s'/  •■  M   '^W.^^.^^'Y      ;  '-r-.,  ,■    '■.,:<i^..  BLAIR. 

-T^;.'     \     SECTION  IX.    -^^  ■  ■ 

Tht  dignihj  of  Virtue  amidst  corrupt  Examples, 

THE  most  excellent  and  honourable  character  which  can 
adorn  a  man  and  a  Christian,  is  acquired  by  resisting  the 


52 


THE  ENGUSII  EEAJDllR.         Part  I. 


torrent  of  vice,  and  adhering  to  the  cause  of  God  and  virtue, 
against  a  corrupted  multitude.  It  will  be  found  to  hold  in 
general,  that  they,  who,  in  any  of  the  great  lines  of  lift, 
have  distinguished  themselves  for  tliinking  profoundly,  and 
actmg  nobly,  have  despised  popular  prejudices;  and  depart- 
ed, in  several  things,  from  the  common  ways  of  the  world. 

2  On  no  occasion  is  this  more  requisite  for  true  honour, 
than  where  religion  and  morality  are  concerned.  In  times 
of  prevailing  licentiousness,  to  maintain  unblemished  virtue, 
and  uncorrupted  integrity  in  a  public  or  a  private  cause  ;  to 
stand  firm  by  what  is  fair  and  just,  amidst  discouragements 
and  opposition;  despising  groundless  censure  and  reproach; 
disdaining  all  compliance  with  public  manners,  when  they 
are  vicious  and  unlawful ;  and  never  ashamed  of  the  punc- 
tual discharge  of  every  duty  towards  God  and  man ;  this  is 
what  shows  true  greatness  of  spirit,  and  will  force  approba- 
tion even  from  the  degenerate  multitude  themselves. 

3  "  This  is  the  man,"  (their  conscience  will  oblige  them 
to  acknowledge,)  "  whom  we  are  unable  to  bend  to  mean 
condescensions.  We  see  it  in  vain  either  to  flatter  or  to 
threaten  him  ;  he  rests  on  a  principle  within,  which  we  can- 
not shake.  To  this  man  we  may,  on  any  occasion,  safely 
commit  our  cause.  He  is  incapable  of  betraying  his  trust, 
or  deserting  his  friend,  or  denying  his  faith," 

4  It  is,  accordingly,  this  steady,  inflexible  virtue,  this  re- 
gard to  principle,  superior  to  all  custom  an' I  opinion,  which 
peculiarly  marked  the  characters  of  those  in  any  age,  who 
have  shone  with  distinguished  lustre ;  and  has  consecrated 
their  memory  to  all  posterity.  It  was  this  that  obtained  to 
ancient  Enoch  the  most  singular  testimony  of  honour  from 
heaven.  'y*  ;  ?=,-    ■^•.tmr 

6  He  continued  to  "  walk  with  God,"  when  the  world 
apostatized  from  him.  He  pleased  Gt  d,  and  was  beloved  ol 
him  ;  so  that  living  among  sinners,  he  was  translated  to 
heaven  without  seeing  death.  "  Yea,  speedily  was  he  taken 
away,  lest  wickedness  should  have  altered  his  undei^taud- 
ingj  or  deceit  beguiled  his  soul."       «        .  *fe.  *i#  ^^ii  ^  ^^  *>. 

6  When  Sodom  could  not  furnish  ten  righteous  men  to 
save  it,  Lot  remained  unspotted  amidst  the  contagion.  He 
lived  like  an  angel  among  spirits  of  darkness  ;  and  the  de- 
stroying flame  was  not  permitted  to  go  forth,  till  the  good 
man  was  called  away,  by  a  heavenly  messenger,  from  his 
devoted  city. 

7  When  "  all  flesh  had  corrupted  their  way  upon  the 


Chap.  III. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


53 


earth,"  then  lived  Noah,  a  righteous  man,  and  a  preachei 
of  righteousness.  He  stood  alone,  and  was  scoffed  by  th# 
profane  crew.  But  they,  by  the  deluge,  were  swept  away; 
while  on  him.  Providence  conferred  the  immortal  honour, 
of  being  the  restorer  of  a  better  race,  and  the  father  of  a  new 
world.  Such  examples  as  these,  and  such  honours  confer- 
red by  God  on  them  who  withstood  the  multitude  of  evil 
doers,  should  often  be  present  to  our  mindd. 

8  Let  us  oppose  them  to  the  numbers  of  low  and  corrupt 
examples,  which  we  behold  around  us;  and  when  we  are  in 
hazard  of  being  swayed  by  such,  let  us  fortify  our  virtue,  by 
thinking  of  those,  who,  in  former  times,  shone  like  stars  in 
the  midst  of  surrounding  darkness,  and  are  now  shining  in 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  as  the  brightness  of  the  firmament, 
for  ever  and  ever.  blair. 

SECTION  X. 

The  mortifications  of  Vice  greater  than  those  of  Virtue. 

THOUGH  no  condition  of  human  life  is  free  from  unea- 
siness, yet  it  must  be  allowed,  that  the  uneasiness  belonging 
to  a  sinful  course,  is  far  greater  than  what  attends  a  course 
of  well-doing.  If  we  are  weary  of  the  labours  of  virtue,  we 
may  be  assured,  that  the  world,  whenever  we  try  the  ex- 
change, will  lay  upon  us  a  much  heavier  load. 

2  It  is  the  outside  only,  of  a  licentious  life,  which  is  gay 
and  smiling.  Within,  it  conceals  toil,  and  trouble,  and 
deadly  sorrow.  For  vice  poisons  human  happiness  in  the 
spring,  by  introducing  disorder  into  the  heart.  Those  pas- 
sions which  it  seems  to  indulge,  it  only  feeds  with  imperfect 
gratifications ;  and  thereby  strengthens  them  for  preying,  in 
the  end,  on  their  unhappy  victims. 

3  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  imagine,  that  the  pain  of  self- 
denial  is  confined  to  virtue.  He  who  follows  the  world,  as 
much  as  he  who  follows  Christ,  must  "take  up  his  cross ;" 
and  to  him,. assuredly,  it  will  prove  a  more  oppressive  bur- 
den. Vice  allows  all  our  passions  to  range  uncontrolled  v 
and  where  each  claims  to  be  superior,  it  is  impossible  tc 
gratify  all.  The  predominant  desire  can  only  be  indulged 
at  the  expense  of  its  rival. 

4  No  mortifications  which  virtue  exacts,  are  more  severb 
than  those  which  ambition  imposes  upon  the  love  of  ease, 
pride  upon  interest,  and  covetousness  upon  vanity.  Self- 
denial,  therefore,  belongs,  in  common,  to  vice  and  virtue ; 
but  with  this  remarkable  difference,  that  the  passions  which 

K2 


54 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  L 


virtue  requires  us  to  mortify,  it  tends  to  weaken ;  whereas, 
those  which  vice  obliges  us  to  deny,  it,  at  the  same  time, 
strengthens.  The  one  diminishes  the  pain  of  self-denial,  by 
moderating  the  demands  of  passions  ;  the  other  increases  it, 
by  rendering  those  demands  imperious  and  violent. 

6  T^Tiat  distresses  that  occur  in  the  calm  life  of  virtue,  can 
be  compared  to  those  tortures  which  remorse  of  conscience 
inflicts  on  the  wicked ;  to  those  severe  humiliations,  arising 
from  guilt  combined  with  misfortunes,  which  sink  them  to 
the  dust;  to  those  violent  agitations  of  shame  and  disap- 
pointment,  which  sometimes  drive  them  to  the  most  fatal  ex- 
tremities, and  make  them  abhor  their  existence !  How  often, 
in  the  midst  of  those  disastrous  situations,  into  which  their 
crimes  have  brought  them,  have  they  execrated  the  seductions 
of  vice ;  and,  with  bitter  regret,  looked  back  to  the  day  on 
which  they  first  forsook  the  path  of  innocence !  blair. 

SECTION  XI. 

On  Contentment, 

CONTENTMENT  produces,  in  some  measure,  all  those 
effects  which  the  alchymist  usually  ascribes  to  what  he  calls 
the  philosopher's  stone ;  and  if  it  does  not  bring  riches,  it 
does  the  same  thing,  by  banishing  the  desire  of  them.  If  it 
cannot  remove  the  disquietudes  arising  from  a  man's  mind, 
body,  or  fortune,  it  makes  him  easy  under  them.  It  has  in- 
deed a  kindly  influence  on  the  soul  of  man,  in  respect  of 
every  being  to  whom  he  stands  related. 

2  It  extinguishes  all  murmur,  repining,  and  ingratitude, 
towards  that  Being  who  has  allotted  him  his  part  to  act  in 
this  world.  It  destroys  all  inordinate  ambition,  and  every 
tendency  to  corruption,  with  regard  to  the  community  wherein 
he  is  placed.  It  gives  sweetness  to  his  conversation,  and  a 
perpetual  serenity  to  all  his  thoughts. 

3  Among  the  many  methods  which  might  be  made  use  of 
for  acquiring  this  virtue,  I  shall  mention  only  the  two  follow- 
ing. First  of  all,  a  man  should  always  consider  how  much 
he  has  more  than  he  wants ;  and  secondly,  how  much  more 
unhappy  he  might  be  than  he  really  is. 

4  First,  a  man  should  always  consider  how  much  he  has 
more  than  he  wants.  I  am  wonderfully  pleased  with  the  re- 
ply which  Aristippus  made  to  one,  who  condoled  with  him 
upon  the  loss  of  a  fann :  *'  Why,"  said  he,  "  I  have  three 
farms  still,  and  you  have  but  one ;  so  that  I  ought  rather  ta 
be  afflicted  for  you,  than  you  for  me." 


Chap.  III. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


55 


5  On  the  contrary,  foolish  men  are  more  apt  to  consldet- 
what  they  have  lost,  than  what  they  possess ;  and  to  fix  their 
eyes  upon  those  who  are  richer  than  themselves,  rather  than 
those  who  are  under  greater  difficulties.  All  the  real  plea- 
sures and  conveniences  of  life  lie  in  a  narrow  compass ;  hut 
it  is  the  humour  of  mankind  to  be  always  looking  forward, 
and  straining  after  one  who  has  got  the  start  of  them  in  wealth 
and  honour. 

6  For  this  reason,  as  none  can  be  properly  called  rich, 
who  have  not  more  than  they  want,  there  are  few  rich  men 
in  any  of  the  politer  nations,  but  among  the  middle  sort  of 
people,  who  keep  their  wishes  within  their  foilunes,  and 
have  more  wealth  than  they  know  how  to  enjoy. 

7  Persons  of  a  higher  rank  live  in  a  kind  of  splendid  pov- 
erty; and  are  perpetually  wanting,  because,  instead  of  ac- 
i  uiescing  in  the  solid  pleasures  of  life,  they  endeavour  to  out- 
vie one  another  in  shadows  and  appearances.  Men  of  sense 
have  at  all  times  beheld,  with  a  great  deal  of  miith,  this  silly 
game  that  is  playing  over  their  heads;  and,  by  contracting 
their  desires,  they  enjoy  all  that  secret  satisfaction  which 
others  are  always  in  quest  of. 

8  The  truth  is,  this  ridiculous  chase  after  imaginary  plea- 
sures cannot  be  sufficiently  exposed,  as  it  is  the  great  source 
of  those  evils  which  generally  undo  a  nation.  Let  a  man's 
estate  be  what  it  may,  he  is  a  poor  man  if  he  does  not  live 
within  it;  and  naturally  sets  himself  to  sale  to  any  one  that 
can  give  him  his  price. 

9  Wh*n  Pittacus,  after  the  death  of  his  brother,  who  had 
left  him  a  good  estate,  was  oflfered  a  great  sum  of  money  by 
the  king  of  Lydia,  he  tljanked  him  for  his  kindness;  but  told 
him,  he  had  already  more  by  half  than  he  knew"  what  to  do 
with.  In  short,  content  is  equivalent  to  wealth,  and  luxury 
to  poverty  ;  or,,  to  give  the  thought  a  more  agreeable  turn, 
"  Content  is  natural  wealth,"  says  Socrates ;  to  which  1 
shall  add,  luxury  is  arttficial  poverty. 

10  I  shall  therefore  reconmiend  to  the  consideration  ot 
those  who  are  always  aiming  at  superfluous  and  imaginary 
enjoyments,  and  who  will  not  be  at  the  trouble  of  contracting 
their  desires,  an  excellent  saying  of  Bion,  the  philosopher, 
namely,  "  That  no  man  has  so  much  care,  as  he  who  en- 
deavoTU's  after  the  most  happiness."^ 

11  In  the  second  place,  every  one  ought  to  reflect  how 
much  more  unhappy  he  might  be  than  he  really  is.  The  for- 
mer consideration  took  in  all  those  who  are  sutRcienil/  pro- 


56 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  1. 


vided  with  the  means  to  make  themselves  easy;  this  regards 
such  as  actually  lie  under  some  pressure  or  misfortune. 
These  may  receive  great  alleviation,  from  such  a  comparison 
Is  the  unhappy  person  may  make  between  himself  and 
others  ;  or  between  the  misfortune  which  he  suffers,  and 
greater  misfortunes  which  might  have  befallen  him. 

12  I  like  the  story  of  the  honest  Dutchman,  who,  upon 
breaking  his  leg  by  a  fall  from  the  main-ma^t,  told  the  stand- 
ers  by,  it  was  a  great  mercy  that  it  was  not  his  neck.  To 
which,  since  I  am  got  into  quotations,  give  me  leave  to  add  the 
saying  of  an  old  philosopher,  who,  after  having  invited  some 
of  his  friends  to  dine  with  him,  was  ruffled  by  a  person  that 
came  into  the  room  in  a  passion,  and  threw  down  the  table 
that  stood  before  him  :  "  Every  one,"  says  he,  "  has  his  ca- 
lamity ;  and  he  is  a  happy  man  that  ha.T  no  greater  than  this." 

13  We  find  an  instance  to  the  same  purpose,  in  the  life  of 
doctor  Hammond,  written  by  bishop  Fell.  As  this  good  man 
was  troubled  with  a  complication  of  distempers,  when  lie  had 
the  gout  upon  him,  he  used  to  thank  God  that  it  was  not  the 
stone ;  and  when  he  had  the  stone,  that  he  had  not  both 
these  distempers  on  him  at  the  same  time. 

14  I  cannot  conclude  this  essay  without  obsening,  that 
there  never  was  any  system  besides  that  of  Christianity, 
which  could  effectually  produce  in  the  mind  of  man,  the  vir- 
tue I  have  been  hitherto  speaking  of.  In  order  to  m^ke  us 
contented  with  our  condition,  many  of  the  present  philoso- 
phers tell  us,  that  our  discontent  only  hurts  ourselves,  with- 
out being  able  to  make  any  alteration  in' our  circumstances ; 
others  that  whatever  evil  befalls  us  is  derived  to  us  by  a  fatal 
necessity,  to  which  superior  beings  themselves  are  subject ; 
while  others,  very  gravely,  tell  the  man  who  is  miserable, 
that  it  is  necessary  he  should  be  so,  to  keep  up  the  harmony 
of  the  universe;  and  that  the  scheme  of  Providence  would 
be  troubled  and  perverted,  were*  he  otherwise. 

15  These,  and  the  like  considerations,  rather  silence  ths«i 
satisfy  a  man.  They  may  show  him  that  his  discontent  is 
unreasonable,  but  they  are  by  no  means  sufficient  to  relieve  it. 
They  rather  give  despair  than  consolation.  In  a  word,  a 
man  might  reply  to  one  of  these  comforters,  as  Augustus  did 
to  his  friend,  who  advised  him  not  to  grieve  for  the  death  of 
a  person  whom  he  loved,  because  his  grief  could  not  fetch 
him  again:  **It  is  for  that  very  reason,"  said  the  emperor, 
« that  I  grieve." 

16  On  the  contrary,  religion  bears  a  more  tender  regard 


Chap.  III. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


67 


to  human  nature.  It  prescribes  to  every  miserable  man  th« 
means  of  bettering  his  condition:  nay,  it  shows  him,  that 
Clearing  his  afflictions  as  he  ought  to  do,  will  naturally  end  in 
the  removal  of  them.  It  makes  him  easy  here,  because  it 
can  make  him  happy  hereafter;  .  addison 

,,  SECTION  XII.  ;'         ^^ 

_■.  I    Rank  and  Riches  afford  nogrowid  for  Envy,         u^ 

OF  all  the  grounds  of  envy  among  men,  superiority  in 
rank  and  fortune  is  the  most  general.  Hence  the  malig- 
nity which  the  poor  commonly  bear  to  the  rich,  as  engross- 
ing to  themselves  all  the  comforts  of  life.  Hence  the  evil 
eye  with  which  persons  of  inferior  station  scrutinize  those 
who  are  above  them  in  rank ;  and  if  they  approach  to  that 
rank,  their  envy  is  generally  strongest  against  such  as  are 
just  one  step  higher  than  themselves. 

2  Alas!  my  friends,  all  this  envious  disquietude,  which 
agitates  the  world,  arii^es  from  a  deceitful  figure  which  im- 
poses on  the  public  view.  False  colours  are  hung  out :  the 
real  state  of  men  is  not  what  it  seems  to  be.  The  order  oi 
society  requires  a  distinction  of  ranks  to  take  place  ;  but  in 
point  of  happiness,  all  men  come  much  nearer  to  equality 
than  IS  commonly  imagined;  and  the  circumstances  which 
form  any  material  difference  of  happiness  among  them,  are 
not  of  that  nature  which  renders  them  grounds  of  envy. 

3  The  poor  man  possesses  not,  it  is  true,  some  of  the  con- 
veniences and  pleasures  of  the  rich;  but,  in  return,  he  is  free 
from  ttiany  embarrassments  to  which  they  are  subject.  By 
the  simplicity  and  uniformity  of  his  life,  he  is  delivered  from 
that  variety  of  cares,  which  perplex  those  v/ho  have  great 
affairs  to  manage,  intricate  plans  to  pursue,  and  many  enemies, 
perhaps,  to  encounter  in  the  pursuit. 

4  In  the  tranquillity  of  his  small  habitation,  and  private  fa- 
mily, he  enjoys  a  peace  wiiich  is  often  unknown  at  courts. 
The  gratifications  of  nature,  which  are  always  the  most  satis- 
factory, are  possessed  by  him  to  their  full  extent;  apd  if  he 
be  a  stranger  to  the  refined  pleasures  of  the  wealthy,  he  is 
unacquainted  also  with  the  desire  of  them,  and  by  conse- 
quence, feels  no  want.    { Z**!   »'  »«j<>  .v-r#3  ml 

5  His  plain  meal  sfifisfies  hfe  appetitd^  wiih  a  relish  pro- 
ba1&!y  higher  than  that  bf  the  rich  man,  w^ho  sits  down  to  his 
luxurious  banquet.  His  sleep  is  more  sound;  his  health 
more  firm  ;  he  knows  not  what  spleen,  languor,  and  listless- 
ness,  are.     His  accustomed  employments  or  laboucg.are  not 


.*.-! 





58 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  J 


more  oppressive  to  him,  than  the  labour  of  attendance  on 
courts  and  the  great,  the  labours  of  dress,  the  fatigue  ot 
amusements,  the  very  weight  of  idleness,  frequently  are  to 
htf^'rich. 

6  In  the  mean  time,  all  the  beauty  of  the  face  of  nature, 
all  the  enjoj'ments  of  domestic  society,  all  the  gaiety  and 
cheerfulness  of  an  easy  mind,  are  as  open  to  him  as  to  those 
of  the  highest  rank.  The  splendour  of  retinue,  the  sound  of 
titles,  the  appearances  of  high  respect,  are  indeed  soothing, 
for  a  short  time,  to  the  great;  but,  become  familiar,  they 
are  soon  forgotten. — .Custom  effaces  their  impression.  They 
sink  into  the  rank  of  those  ordinary  things  which  daily  re- 
cur, without  raising  any  sensation  of  joy. 

7  liCt  us  cease,  therefore,  from  looking  up  with  discon- 
tent and  envy  to  those,  whom  birth  or  fortune  has  placed 
above  us.  Let  us  adjust  the  balance  of  happiness  fairly. 
When  we  think  of  the  enjoyments  we  want,  we  should  think 
also  of  the  troubles  from  which  we  are  free.  If  we  allow 
their  just  value  to  the  comforts  we  possess,  we  shall  find  rea- 
son to  rest  satisfied,  with  a  very  moderate,  though  not  an 
opulent  and  splendid  condition  of  fortune.  Often,  did  we 
know  the  whole,  we  should  be  inclined  to  pity  the  state  of 
those  whom  we  now  envy.  _     blair. 


^^>v. 


/.{•^ 


SECTION  xni. 


'^fV 


Paiience  under  Provocations^  our  Interest  as  well  as  Duty. 

THE  wide  circle  of  human  society  is  diversified  by  an 
endless  variety  of  characters,  dispositions,  and  passions. — 
Uniformity  is,  in  no  respect,  the  genius  of  the  world.  Every 
man  is  marked  by  some  peculiarity,  which  distinguishes  him 
from  another;  and  no  where  can  two  individuals  be  found, 
v\  ho  are  exactly,  and  in  all  respects,  alike.  Where  so  much 
diversity  obtains,  it  cannot  but  happen,  that  in  the  intercourse 
which  men  are  obliged  to  maintain,  their  tempers  will  often 
be  ill  adjusted  to  that  intercourse  i  will  jar,  and  interfere  with 
each  other.  ^^^  'y^ix-,-         , --^^^  ;:       -     -^rm ',■....■■ -vV^^^ 

2  Hence,  in  every  station,  the  highest  as  well  as  the  low- 
est, and  in  every  condition  of  life — public,  private,  and  do- 
mestic—*occa8ion8  of  irritation  frequently  arise.  We  are 
provoked,  sometimes,  by  the  folly  and  levity  of  those  with 
;vhom  we  are  connected  ;  sometimes,  by  their  indifference 
or  neglect;  by  the  incivility  of  a  friend,  the  haughtiness  of  a 
jsjiperior,  or  the  insolent  behaviour  of  one.in  lower  station*. 


Chap.  III. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


6§ 


3  Hardly  a  day  passes,  without  somewhat  or  other  occur- 
ring, which  serves  to  ruffle  the  man  of  impatient  spirit.  Of 
course,  such  a  man  lives  in  a  continual  storm.  He  knows  not 
what  it  is  to  enjoy  a  train  of  good  humour.  Servants,  neigh- 
bours, friends,  spouse,  and  children,  all,  through  the  unre- 
strained violence  of  his  temper,  become  sourcea  rlisturbance 
and  vexation  to  him.  In  vain  is  affluence:  in  vain  are  health 
and  prosperity.  The  least  trifle  is  sufficient  to  discompose 
his  mind,  and  poison  his  pleasures.  His  very  amusements 
are  mixed  with  turbulence  and  passion. 

4  I  would  beseech  this  man  to  consider,  of  what  small  mo- 
ment the  provocations  which  he  receives,  or  at  least  imagines 
himself  to  receive,  are  really  m  themselves;  but  of  what 
great  moment  he  makes  them,  by  suR'ering  them  to  deprive 
him  of  the  possession  of  himself.  I  would  beseech  him  to 
consider,  how  many  hours  of  happiness  he  throws  away, 
which  a  little  more  patience  would  allow  him  to  enjoy:  and 
and  how  much  he  puts  it  into  the  power  of  the  most  insignifi- 
cant persons  to  render  him  miserable. 

5  "But  who  can  expect,"  we  hear  him  exclaim,  "that  he 
is  to  possess  the  insensibility  of  a  stone  1  How  is  it  possible 
for  human  nature  to  endure  so  many  repeated  provocations? 
or  to  bear  calmly  with  so  unreasonable  behaviour?"  My 
brother!  if  thou  canst  bear  with  no  instances  of  unreasonable 
behaviour,  withdraw  thyself  from  the  world.  Thou  art  no 
longer  fit  to  live  in  it.  Leave  the  intercourse  of  men.  Re- 
treat to  the  mountain,  and  the  desert ;  or  shut  thyself  up  in  a 
cell.    For  here,  in  the  midst  of  society,  offences  must  come, 

6  We  might  as  well  expect,  when  we  behold  a  calm  atmos- 
phere, and  a  clear  sky,  that  no  clouds  were  ever  to  rise,  and 
no  winds  to  blow,  as  tiiat  our  life  were  long  to  proceed,  with- 
out receiving  provocations  from  human  frailty.  The  careless 
and  the  imprudent,  the  giddy  and  the  fickle,  the  ungrj^teful 
and  the  interested,  every  where  meet  us.  They  are  the 
briers  and  thorns,  with  which  the  paths  of  human  life  are 
beset.  He  only,  who  can  hold  his  crurse  among  them  with 
patience  and  equanimity,  he  who  is  prepared  to  bear  what 
he  must  expect  to  happen,  is  worthy  of  the  name  of  a  man. 

7  if  we  preserved  ourselves  composed  but  for  a  moment, 
we  should  perceive  the  insignificancy  of  mo;-it  of  those  provo- 
cations which  we  magnify  so  highly.  When  a  few  suns 
more  have  rolled  over  our  heads,  the  storm  will,  of  itself, 
have  subsided ;  the  cause  of  our  present  impatience  and.  dis- 
turbaijf  e  will  be  utterly  for^^otten.     Can  we  not,  then,  aiiti 


•■2-"* 


iom 


am 


eo 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


cipate  this  hour  of  calmness  to  ourselves  ;  and  begin  to  enjoy 
the  peace  which  it  will  certainly  bring  ? 

8  If  othem  have  behaved  improperly,  let  us  leave  them  to 
their  own  folly,  without  becoming  the  victims  of  their  caprice, 
and  punishing  ourselves  on  their  account.  Patience,  in  tliis 
exercise  of  it,  cannot  be  too  much  studied  by  all  who  wish 
their  life  to  flow  in  a  smooth  stream.  It  is  the  reason  of  u 
man,  in  opposition  to  the  passion  of  a  child.  It  is  the  en. 
joyment  of  peace,  in  opposition  to  uproar  and  confusion. 


t  ■.'*.' 


BLAIR. 


}M 


SECTION  XIV. 


J^oderation  in  our  Wishes  Recommended, 

THE   active  mind  of  man  seldom  or  never  rests  satisfied 
with  its  present  condition,  how  prosperous  soever.     Origi- 
nally formed  for  a  wider  range  of  objects,  for  a  higlier  sphere 
of  enjoyments,  it  finds  itself,  in  every  situation  of  fortune, 
straitened  and  confined.     Sensible  of  deficiency  in  its  state, 
it  is  ever  sending  forth  the  fond  desire,  the  aspiring  wiali, 
after  something  beyond  what  is  enjoyed  at  present. 
•*2    Hence,  Qiat  restlessness  which  prevails  so  generally 
among  mankind.     Hence,  that  disgust  of  pleasures  which 
they  have  tried  ;  that  passion  for  novelty  ;  that  ambition  of 
rising  to  some  degree  of  eminence  or  felicity,  of  which  they 
have  formed  to  themselves  an  indistinct  idea.     All  which  may 
be  considered  as  indications  of  a  certain  native,  original  great- 
ness in  the  human  soul,  swelling  beyond  the  limits  of  its  pre- 
sent condition,  and  pointing  to  the  higher  objects  for  which 
it  was  made.     Happy,  if  these  latent  remains  of  our  primi- 
tive state,  served  to  direct  our  wishes  towards  their  proper 
destination,  and  to  lead  us  into  the  path  of  true  bliss ! 

3  But  in  this  dark  and  bewildered  state,  the  aspiring  ten- 
dency of  our  nature,  unfortunately  takes  an  opposite  direc- 
tion, and  feeds  a  very  misplaced  ambition.  The  flattering 
appearances  which  here  present  themselves  to  sense  ;  the  dis- 
tinctions which  fortune  confers  ;  the  advantages  and  plea- 
sures which  we  imagine  the  world  to  be  capable  of  bestowing, 
fill  up  the  ultimate  wish  of  most  men.  These  are  the  objects 
which  engross  their  solitary  musings,  and  stimulate  their  ac- 
tive labours  ;  which  warm  the  breasts  of  tiie  young,  animate 
the  industry  of  the  middle  aged,  and  often  keep  alive  the 
passions  of  the  old,  until  the  very  close  of  life. 

4  Assuredly,  there  is  nothing  unlawful  in  our  wishing  to 
be  freed  from  whatever  is  disagreeable,  and  to  obtain  a  fuller 


Chap*  HI. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


01 


enjoyment  of  the  comforto  of  life.  But  when  these  wishes 
are  not  tempered  by  reason,  they  are  in  danger  of  precipita- 
ting us  into  much  extravagance  and  folly.  Desires  and 
wishes  are  the  first  springs  of  action.  When  they  become 
exorbitant,  the  whole  character  is  likely  to  be  tainted. 

6  If  we  suffer  our  fancy  to  create  to  itself  worlds  of  ideal 
happiness,  we  shall  discompose  the  peace  and  order  of  our 
minds,  and  foment  many  hurtful  passions.  Here,  then,  let 
moderation  begin  its  reign,  by  bringing  within  reasonable 
bounds  the  wishes  that  we  form.  As  soon  as  they  become 
extravagant,  let  us  check  them  by  proper  reflections  on  tlie 
fallacious  nature  of  those  objects,  which  the  world  hangs  out 
to  allure  desire. 

6  You  have  strayed,  my  friends,  from  the  road  which  con- 
ducts to  felicity;  you  have  dishonoured  the  native  dignity  of 
your  souls,  in  allowing  your  wishes  to  terminate  on  nothing 
higher  than  worldly  ideas  of  greatness  or  happiness.  Your 
imagination  roves  in  a  land  of  shadows.  Unreal  fonn^  de- 
ceive you.  It  is  no  more  than  a  phantom,  an  illusion  of  hap- 
piness, which  attracts  your  fond  admiration;  nay,  an  illu- 
sion of  happiness,  which  often  conceals  much  real  misery. 

7  Do  you  imagine  that  all  are  happy,  who  have  attained  to 
tliose  summits  of  distinction,  towards  which  your  wishes  as- 
pire? Alas!  how  frequently  has  experience  shown,  that 
where  roses  were  supposed  to  bloom,  nothing  but  briers  and 
thorns  grew  !  Reputation,  beauty,  riches,  grandeur,  nay, 
royalty  itself,  would,  many  a  time,  have  been  gladly  ex- 
changed by  the  possessors,  for  that  more  quiet  and  humble 
station,  with  which  you  are  now  dissatisfied. 

8  With  all  that  is  splendid  and  shining  in  the  world,  it  is 
decreed  that  there  should  mix  many  deep  shades  of  woe. 
On  the  elevated  situations  of  fortune,  the  great  calamities  of 
life  chiefly  fall.  There,  the  storm  spends  its  violence,  and 
there,  the  thunder  breal^s;  while,  safe  and  unhurt,  the  in- 
habitants of  the  vale  remain  below.  Retreat,  then,  fr'»m 
those  vain  and  pernicious  excursions  of  extravagant  desire. 

9  Satisfy  yourselves  with  what  is  rational  and  attainable. 
Train  your  minds  to  moderate  views  of  human  life,  and  hu- 
niaii  happiness.  Remember,  and  admire  the  wisdom  of 
Agur's  petition  •  "Remove  far  from  me  vanity  and  lies. 
Give  me  neither  poverty  nor  riches.  Feed  me  with  food 
convenient  for  me  ;  lest  I  be  full  and  deny  thee  ;  and  say, 
who  is  the  Lord  ?  or  lest  I  be  poor  and  steal,  and  take  the 
name  of  my  God  in  vain.*'  >  blair. 

r^      .•     .    .•  F  ;•:-:••■- 


62 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


^   ^  SECTION  XV. 

Otnniscienee  and  Omniprtsmce  of  the  Deity,  the  Source  oj 

Consolation  to  good  men, 

1  WAS  yesterday,  about  sun-set,  walking  in  the  open 
fields,  till  the  night  insensibly  fell  upon  me.  T  at  first  amused 
myself  with  all  the  richness  and  variety  of  colours  which  ap- 
peared in  the  western  parts  of  heaven.  In  proportion  as  they 
faded  away  and  went  out,  several  stars  and  planets  appeared 
one  after  another,  till  the  whole  firmament  was  in  a  glow. 

2  The  bluenesa  of  the  ether  was  exceedingly  heightened 
and  enlivened,  by  the  season  of  the  year,  and  the  rays  of  all 
those  luminaries  that  passed  through  it.  The  galaxy  ap- 
peared in  its  most  beautiful  white.  To  complete  the  scene, 
the  full  moon  rose,  at  length,  in  that  clouded  majesty,  which 
Milton  takes  notice  of ;  and  opened  to  the  eye  a  new  picture 
of  nature,  which  was  more  finely  shaded,  and  disposed 
among  softer  lights,  than  that  which  the  sun  had  before  dis- 
covered to  me. 

3  As  I  was  surveying  the  moon  walking  in  her  brightness, 
and  taking  her  progress  among  the  constellations,  a  thought 
arose  in  me,  which  I  believe  very  often  perplexes  and  dis- 
turbs men  of  serious  and  contemplative  natures,  David  hinv- 
felf  fell  into  it  in  that  reflection :  "  When  I  consider  fhe 
heavens,  tlie  work  of  thy  fingers  ;  the  moon  and  the  stars 
which  thou  hast  ordained ;  what  is  man,that  thou  art  mindful 
of  him,  md  the  son  of  man,  that  thou  regardest  him  !" 

4  In  the  same  manner,  when  I  considered  that  infinite  host 
of  stars,  or,  to  speak  more  philosophically,  of  suns,  which 
were  then  shining  upon  me  ;  with  those  innumerable  sets  oi 
planets  or  worlds,  which  were  moving  round  their  respective 
suns ;  when  I  still  enlarged  the  idea,  and  supposed  another 
heaven  of  suns  and  worlds,  rising  still  above  this  which  I 
discovered  ;  ^nd  these  still  enlightened  by  a  superior  firma- 
ment of  luminaries,  which-are  planted  at  so  great  a  distance, 
that  they  may  appear  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  former,  as  the 
stars  do  to  me :  in  short,  while  I  pursued  this  thought,  I 
could  not  but  reflect  on  that  little  insignificant  figure  which  ( 
myself  bore  amidst  the  immensity  of  God's  works. 

5  Were  the  sun,  which  enlightens  this  part  of  the  creation, 
with  all  the  host  of  planetary  worlds  that  move  about  him,  ut- 
terly extinguished  and  annihilated,  they  would  not  be  missed, 
more  than  a  grain  of  sand  upon  the  sea-shore.  The  space 
they  possess  is  so  exceeding  little  in  comparison  of  the  whole. 


duAP.  t!I. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


63 


it  would  scarcely  make  a  blaiik  in  the  creation.  The  chasm 
would  be  imperceptible  to  an  eye  that  could  take  in  the  whole 
compass  of  nature,  and  pass  from  one  end  of  tne  creation  to 
the  other  ;  as  it  is  possible  there  may  be  such  a  sense  in  our- 
selves hereafter,  or  in  creatures  which  are  at  present  more 
exalted  than  ourselves.  By  the  help  of  aflasses,  we  see  many 
stars  which  we  do  not  discover  with  our  naked  eyes ;  and 
the  finer  our  telescopes  are,  the  j^ater  still  are  our  discoveries. 

6  Huygenius  carries  this  thought  so  far,  that  he  does  not 
think  it  impossible  there  may  be  stars,  whose  light  has  not 
yet  travelled  down  to  us,  since  their  first  creation.  There  is 
no  question  that  the  universe  has  certain  bounds  set  to  it ; 
but  when  we  consider  that  it  is  the  work  of  Infinite  Power 
prompted  by  Infinite  Goodness,  with  an  infinite  space  to  ex- 
ert itself  in,  how  can  our  imagination  set  any  bounds  to  it  2 

7  To  return,  therefore,  to  my  first  thought,  I  could  not 
hut  look  upon  myself  with  secret  horror,  as  a  being  that  was 
not  worth  the  smallest  regard  of  one  who  had  so  great  a  work 
under  his  care  and  superintendency.  I  was  afraid  of  being 
overlooked  amidst  the  immensity  of  nature,  and  lost  among 
that  infinite  variety  of  creatures,  which,  in  all  probability, 
swarm  through  all  these  immeasurable  regions  of  matter. 

8  In  order  to  recover  myself  from  this  mortifying  thought, 
I  considered  that  it  took  its  rise  from  those  narrow  concep- 
tions which  we  are  apt  to  entertain  of  the  Divine  Nature. 
We  ourselves  cannot  attend  to  many  different  objects  at  the 
same  time.  If  we  are  careful  to  inspect  some  things,  we 
must  of  course  neglect  others.  This  imperfection  which  we 
observe  in  ourselves,  is  an  imperfection  that  cleaves,  in  some 
degree,  to  creatures  of  the  highest  capacities,  as  they  are 
creatures ;  that  is,  beings  of  finite  and  limited  natures. 

9  The  presence  of  every  created  being  is  confined  to  a  cer- 
tain measure  of  space  ;  and,  consequently,  his  observation  is 
stinted  to  a  certain  number  of  objects.  The  sphere  in  which 
we  move,  and  act,  and  understand,  is  of  a  wider  circum- 
ference to  one  creature  than  another,  according  as  we  rise 
one  above  another  in  the  scale  of  existence.  But  the  widest 
of  these  our  spheres,  has  its  circumference.        -'  ' 

10  When,  therefore,  we  reflect  on  the  Divine  Nature, 
we  are  so  used  and  accustomed  to  this  imperfection  in  our- 
selves, that  we  cannot  forbear,  in  some  measure,  ascribing  it 
to  HIM,  in  whom  there  is  no  shadow  of  imperfection.  Our 
reason  indeed  assures  us,  that  hJs  attributes  are  infinite ; 
tat  the  poorness  of  our  conceptions  is  such,  that  it  cannot 


^^ 


m 

m 

srp 

m 

h^'i 

mi  1^ 

yiiij 

'i-1 

Mm 

i,'-.^* 

M 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Vaut  L 


forbear  setting  bounds  to  every  thing  it  contemplates,  till  our 
reason  comes  again  to  our  succour,  and  throws  down  all 
those  little  prejudices,  which  rise  in  us  unawares,  and  are 
natural  to  the  mind  of  man. 

11  We  shall  therefore  utterly  extinguish  this  melancholy 
thought,  of  our  being  overlooked  by  our  Maker,  in  the  multi- 
plicity of  his  works,  and  the  infinity  of  those  objects  among 
which  he  seems  to  be  incessantly  employed,  if  we  consider, 
in  the  first  place,  that  he  is  omnipresent;  and,  in  the  second, 
that  he  is  omniscient. 

12  If  we  consider  him  in  his  omnipresence,  his  being 
passes  through,  actuates,  and  supports,  tlie  whole  frame  of 
nature.  His  creation,  in  every  part  of  it,  is  full  of  him. 
There  is  nothing  he  has  made,  which  is  either  so  distant,  so 
little,  or  so  inconsiderable,  that  he  does  not  essentially  re- 
side in  it.  His  substance  is  within  the  suljstance  of  every 
being,  whether  material  or  immaterial,  and  as  intimately 
present  to  it,  as  that  being  is  to  itself. 

13  It  would  be  an  imperfection  in  him,  were  he  able  to 
move  out  of  one  place  into  another;  or  to  witlulraw  himself 
from  any  thing  he  has  created,  or  from  any  part  of  that  space 
which  he  diffused  and  spread  abroad  to  infinity.  In  short, 
t(^peak  of  him  in  the  language  of  the  old  philosophers,  he  is 
a  Being  whose  centre,  is  every  where,  and  his  circumfe- 
rence, no  where. 

14  In  the  second  place,  he  is  omniscient  as  well  as  om- 
nipresent. His  omniscience,  indeed,  necessarily  and  na- 
turally flows  from  his  omnipresence.  He  cannot  but  be 
conscious  of  every  motion  that  arises  in  the  whole  materia] 
world,  which  he  thus  essentially  pervades;  and  of  every 
thought  that  is  stirring  in  the  intellectual  world,  to  every  part 
of  which  he  is  thus  intimately  united. 

15  Were  the  soul  separated  from  the  body,  and  should  it 
with  one  glance  of  thought  start  beyond  the  bounds  of  the 
creation ;  should  it  for  millions  of  years  continue  its  pro- 
gress through  infinite  space,  with  the  same  activity,  it  would 
still  find  itself  within  the  embrace  of  its  Creator,  and  encom- 
passed by  the  immensity  of  the  Godhead.  ,  {> 

16  In  this  considerati  >n  of  the  Almighty's  omniprescmce 
and  omniscience,  every  uncomfortable  thought  vanishes. 
He  cannot  but  regard  every  thing  that  has  being,  especially 
such  of  his  creatures  who  fear  they  are  not  regarded  by  him. 
He  is  privy  to  all  their  thoughts,  and  to  that  anxiety  of  heart 
m  particular,  which  is  apt  to  trouble  them  on  this  occ^asT^  ; 


Chap.  IT.     ARGUMENTATIVK  PIECES. 


^6 


for,  as  It  is  impossible  he  should  overlook  any  of  his  crea- 
tures, so  we  may  be  confident  that  he  rcifards  v\  ith  an  eye  o^ 
mercy,  those  who  endeavour  to  reconimond  themseivest  to  hit 
notice,  and,  in  an  unfeigned  humility  ol'heart, think  theniseivef 
unworthy  that  be  should  he  mindrul  of  them.  '  ^sdwis^n. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
ARGUMEJVr.rrirE  PIEr^S, 

SECTION  I. 

Happiness  is  founded  in  Reciiludc  of  londiu  f. 

ALL  men  pursue  good,  and  would  be  happy,  If  klicjr 
knew  how  :  not  happy  for  minutes,  and  miserable  for  houi^  ; 
but  happy,  if  possible,  through  every  part  of  their  existence. 
Either,  therelore,  there  is  a  good  of  this  steady,  durable 
kind,  or  there  is  not.  If  not,  then  all  ^ood  must  be  tran- 
sient, and  uncertain ;  and  if  so,  an  object  of  the  loweat  value, 
nhich  can  little  deserve  our  attention  or  inquiry 

2  But  if  there  be  a  better  good,  sujch  a  good  as  we  are 
eeeking,  like  every  other  thing,  it  must  be  derived  from  some 
cause;  and  thatcause  must  eithr""  ?  •  external,  internal,  or  mix- 
ed; in  as  much  as,  except  these  three,  there  is  no  other  possi- 
ble. Now  a  steady,  durable  good,  cannot  be  derived  trom 
an  external  caijse;  since  uil  derived  from  externals  musfc 
fluctuate  as  they  Huctuuit. 

3  l^y  the  same  rule,  it  cannot  be  derived  from  a  mixturi^ 
of  the  two ;  because  the  part  which  is  external  will  propor- 
tionably  destroy  its  essence.  What  then  remains  but  the 
cause  internal — the  very  cause  which  we  have  supposed., 
when  we  place  the  sovereign  good  in  mind  in  rectitude  oi 

conduct.  V  •         HARRIS,. 

,.(^.,,., ,,.,;,,.      SECTION  n.  ,;:,:,,;.;:.  .._,^..  ^ 

M?:  Virtue  and  Piety  Man's  Hio;hest  Interest     #- j'^ 

I  FIND  Hrtyself  existing  upon  a  little  spot,  surrounded  every 
way  by  an  immense,  unknown  expansion. — W  here  am  I  ? 
What  sort  of  place  do  I  inhabit ?  Is  it  exactly  itccomodated 
in  every  instance  to  my  convenience  ^  Is  there  no  excess  of 
cold,  none  of  heat,  to  offend  me  ?  Am  1  never  aTinoyed  by 
animals,  either  of  my  own,  or  a  different  kind?  Is  every 
thifig  subservient  to  me,  as  thou8:h  I  had  ordered  all  myseff? 
No — -jwthing  like  it — the  fartiiest  from  it  possibte; 

F2^ 


f« 


TiVR  EXGLISBT  READER.        Part  I. 


2  The  world  appears  not,  then,  originally  made  for  the 
private  convenience  of  me  alone? — It  does  not.  But  is  it 
not  possible  so  to  accomodate  it,  by  my  own  particular  in- 
dustry? If  to  accommodate  man  and  beast,  heaven  ari'd 
earth,  if  this  be  beyond  me,  it  is  not  possible.  What  con- 
sequence then  follows ;  or  can  there  be  any  other  than  this  ? 
If  I  seek  an  interest  of  my  own,  detached  from  that  of 
others,  I  seek  an  interest  which  is  chimerical,  and  which  can 
never  have  existence. 

3  How  then  must  I  determine  ?  Have  I  no  interest  at  all  ? 
If  I  have  not,  I  am  stationed  here  to  no  purpose.  But  why 
no  interest?  Can  I  be  contented  with  none  but  one  separate 
and  detached  ?  Is  a  social  interest,  joined  with  others,  such 
an  absurdity  as  not  to  be  admitted?  The  bee,  the  beaver, 
and  the  tribes  of  herding  animals,  are  sufficient  to  convince 
me,  that  the  thing  is  somewhere  at  least  possible. 

4  How,  then,  am  I  assured  that  it  is  not  equally  true  of 
maa  ?  Admit  it,  and  what  follows  ?  If  so,  then  honour  and 
justice  are  my  interest;  then  the  whole  train  of  moral  vir- 
tues are  my  interest;  without  some  portion  of  which,  not 
even  thieves  can  maintain  society. 

5  But,  farther  still-i^-I  stop  not  here — I  pursue  this  social 
interest  as  far  as  I  can  trace  my  several  relations.  I  pass  from 
my  own  stock,  my  own  neighbourhood,  my  own  nation,  to 
the  whole  race  of  mankind,  as  dispersed  throughout  the 
earth.  Am  I  not  related  to  them  all,  by  the  mutual  aids  of 
commerce,  by  the  general  intercourse  of  arts  and  letters,  by 
that  common  nature  of  which  we  all  participate  1 

6  Again — I  must  have  food  and  clothing.  WiAout  a 
proper  genial  warmth,  I  instantly  perish.  Am  I  not  related, 
in  this  view,  to  the  very  earth  itself?  to  the  distant  sun,  from 
whose  beams  I  derive  vigour?  to  that  stupendous  course  and 
order  of  the  infinite  host  of  heaven,  by  which  the  times  and 
masons  ever  uniformly  pass  on? 

7  Were  this  order  once  confounded,  I  could  not  probably 
Burvive  a  moment;  so  absolutely  do  I  depend  on  this  com- 
mon general  welfare.  What,  then,  have  I  to  do,  but  to  en- 
large virtue  into  piety?  Not  only  honour  and  justice,  and  what 
I  owe  to  man,  are  my  interest.  Hut  gratitude  also ;  acquies- 
eence,  resignation,  adoration,  and  all  I  owe  to  this  great  poli- 
ty^ and  its  great  Qovwu^ov^  cwr  corainon  Farent*       karris^ 


i-it'  f: 


-.■.  -  rf   i 

>=  v"r  f 

^">i       Tf   «    . 

>   ^.- 

"'"'■'"■■-•.- 

•       -{"ft  /  .    , 

•     'fl^    tM 

.  V  • 

^...  ~ 

.'       .* 

(jttit  ^^L^f-; 

C^F.  IT.     ARGUMENTATIVE  PIECES. 


iS7 


SECTION  III. 


. .  ..w-ut-r 


The  Injustice  of  an  Unchantable  Spirit,    -    "     i 

A  SUSPICIOUS,  uncharitable  spirit,  is  not  only  incon- 
sistent with  all  social  virtue  and  happiness,  but  it  is  also  in 
itself,  unreasonable  and  unjust.  In  order  to  form  sound 
opinions  concerning  characters  and  actions,  two  things  are 
especially  requisite ;  information  and  impartiality.  But  such 
as  are  most  forward  to'  decide  unfavourably,  are  commonly 
destitute  of  both.  Instead  of  possessing,  or  even  requiring, 
full  information,  the  grounds  on  which  they  proceed  are  fre- 
quently the  most  slight  and  frivolous. 

2  A  tale,  perhaps,  which  the  idle  have  invented,  the  inqui- 
sitive have  listened  to,  and  the  credulous  have  propagated ;  or 
a  real  incident,  which  rumour,  in  carrying  it  along,  has  ex- 
aggerated and  disguised,  supplies  them  with  materials  of  con- 
fident assertion,  and  decisive  judgment.  From  an  action 
they  presently  look  into  the  heart,  and  infer  the  motive.  This 
supposed  motive  they  conclude  to  be  the  ruling  principle, 
and  pronounce  at  once  concerning  the  whole  character. 

3  Nothing  can  be  more  contrary  both  to  equity  and  to 
fiound  reason,  than  this  precipitate  judgment.  Any  man  who 
attends  to  what  passes  within  himself,  may  easily  discern 
what  a  complicated  system  the  human  character  is;  and  what 
a  vainety  of  circumstances  must  be  taken  into  the  account,  in 
order  to  estimate  it  truly.  No  single  instance  of  conduct, 
whatever,  is  sufficient  to  determine  it. 

4  As  from  one  worthy  action,  it  were  credulity,  not  chari- 
tyf  to  conclude  a  pei^on  to  be  free  from  all  vice;  so  from 
one  which  is  censurable,  it  is  perfectly  unjust  to  infer  that  the 
author  of  it  is  without  conscience,  and  without  merit.  If  we 
knew  all  the  attending  circumstances,  it  might  appear  in  an 
i&xcusable  light ;  nay,  perhaps,  under  a  commendable  form. 
The  motives  of  the  actor  may  have  been  entirely  different 
from  Iho^e  which  we  ascribe  to  him ;  and  where  we  suppose 
him  impelled  by  bad  design,  he  may  have  been  prompted  by 
conscience  and  mistaken  principle.  -  .-  ^..^^t^:,--^^ 

$  Admitting  the  action  to  have  been  in  every  view  crimi- 
nal, he  may  have  been  hurried  into  it  through  inadvertency 
and  surprise.  .  He  may  have  sincerely  repented;  and  the 
virtuous  principle  may  have  now  regained  ite  full  vigour. 
Perhaps  this  was  the  corner  of  frailty ;  the  quarter  on  which 
he  lay  open  to  the  incursions  of  temptation ;  while  the  other 
fi^veoued  of  his  heart  were  Urmly  guarded  by  conscience, 


6d 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.  Paut  I. 


6  It  is  therefore  evident,  tliat  no  part  of  the  government 
of  temper  deserves  attention  more,  than  to  Iteep  our  minds 
pure  from  uncharitable  prejudices,  and  open  to  candour  and 
humanity  in  judging  of  others.  The  worst  consequences, 
both  to  ourselves  and  to  society,  follovir  from  the  opposite 
spirit.  -  ';.  blair. 

^v^      SECTION  IV. 

The  Misfortunes  of  JSIen  mostly  chargeable  on  themselves, 

WE  find  man  placed  in  a  world,  where  he  has  by  no  means 
the  disposal  of  the  events  that  happen.  Calamities  some- 
times befall  the  worthiest  and  the  best,  which  it  is  not  in 
tilieir  power  to  prevent,  and  where  nothing  is  left  them,  bui 
to  acknowledge,  and  to  submit  to  the  high  hand  of  Heaven. 
For  such  visitations  of  trial,  many  good  and  wise  reasons  caii 
be  assigned,  which  the  present  sul)ject  leads  me  not  todiscussi 

2  But  though  tiiose  unavoidable  calamities  make  a  part, 
yet  they  malce  not  the  chief  part,  of  the  vexations  and  sor- 
rows that  distress  human  life.  A  multitude  of  evils  beset  i\3y 
for  the  source  of  which  we  must  lool?  to  another  quarter. 
No  sooner  has  any  thing  in  the  health,  or  in  the  circum- 
stances of  men,  gorite  cross  to  their  wish,  than  thoy  begin 
to  talk  of  the  unequal  distribution  of  the  good  thiiigs  of  this 
life ;  they  envy  the  condition  of  others ;  they  repine  at  their 
own  lot,  and  fret  against  the  Ruler  of  the  v»^orld. 

3  Full  of  these  sentiments,  one  man  pines  under  a  broken 
constitution.  But  let  us  ask  him,  whether  he  can,  fairly  and 
honestly,  assign  no  ca  jse  for  this  but  the  unknown  decree  of 
heaven?  Has  he  duly  valued  the  blessing  of  health,  and  al- 
ways observed  the  rules  of  virtue  and  sobriety  1  Has  he  been 
moderate  in  his  life,  and  temperate  in  all  his  pleasures  ?  It 
now  he  is  only  paying  the  price  of  his  fornter,  perhaps  his 
forgotten  indulgencies,  has  he  any  title  to  complain,  as  if  he 
were  suffering  unjustly  ? 

4  Were  we  to  survey  the  chambers  of  s'.ckness  and  dis- 
tress, we  should  often  find  them  peopled  with  the  victims  of 
intemperance  and  sensuality,  and  with  the  children  of  vicious 
indolence  and  sloth.  Among  the  thousands  who  languish 
there,  we  should  find  the  proportion  of  innocent  sufllererS  to 
be  small.  We  should  see  faded  youth,  premature  old  age, 
and  the  prospect  of  an  untimely  jyrave,  to  be  the  portion  of 
multitudes,  who,  in  one  whv  or  other,  h^ve  brought  those 
evils  on  themselv«?s  ;    while  vet  these  martvrs  of  vice  and 


Dhap.  l^^    ARGUIVIENTATITE  PIECES.  0 

folly,  have  the  assurance  to  arraigu  the  hard  fate  of  ma», 
and' to  "  fret  against  the  Lord." 

6  But  you,  perhaps,  complain  of  hardships  of  another 
kind  ;  of  the  injustice  of  the  world  ,  of  the  poverty  which 
you  suffer,  and  the  discouragements  under  which  you  la- 
bour; of  the  crosses,  and  disappointments,  of  which  your 
life  has  been  doomed  to  be  full.  Before  you  give  too  much 
scope  to  your  discontent,  let  me  desire  you  to  reflect  impar- 
tially upon  your  past  train  of  life. 

6  Have  not  sloth  or  pride,  ill  temper,  or  sinful  passions, 
misled  you  often  from  the  path  of  sound  and  wise  conduct  \ 
Have  you  not  been  wanting  to  yourselves  in  improving  those 
opportunities  which  Providence  offered  you,  for  bettering 
and  advancing  your  state?  If  you  have  chosen  to  indulge 
your  humour,  or  your  taste,  in  the  gratifications  of  indolence 
or  pleasure,  can  you  complain  because  others,  in  preference 
to  you,  have  obtained  those  advantages  which  naturally  be- 
long to  useful  labours,  and  honourable  pursuits? 

7  Have  not  the  consequences  of  some  false  steps,  into 
which  your  passions,  or  your  pleasures,  have  betrayed  you, 
pursued  you  through  much  of  your  life;  tainted,  perhaps, 
your  characters,  involved  you  in  embarrassments,  or  sunk 
you  into  neglect?  It  is  an  old  saying,  that  every  man  is^ke 
artificer  of  his  own  fortune  in  the  world.  It  is  certain,  thai 
the  world  seldom  turns  wholly  against  a  man,  unless  through 
his  own  fault.  "Religion  is,"  in  general,  "profitable  untt 
all  things."     « 

8  Virtue,  diligence,  and  industry,  joined  with  good  tem- 
per, and  prudence,  have  ever  been  found  the  surest  road  to 
prosperity;  and  where  men  fail  of  attaining  it,  their  want  of 
success  is  far  oftener  owing  to  their  having  deviated  from  thai 
road,  than  to  their  having  encountered  insuperable  bars  in  it. 
Some,  by  being  too  artful,  forfeit  the  reputation  of  probity. 
Some,  by  being  too  open,  are  accounted  to  fail  in  prudence. 
Others,  by  being  fickle  and  changeable,  are  distrusted  by  all, 

9  The  case  commonly  is,  that  men  seek  to  ascribe  their 
disappointments  to  any  cause,  rather  than  to  their  own  mis- 
conduct ;  and  when  they  can  devise  no  other  cause,  they  lay 
them  to  the  charge  of  Providence.  Their  folly  leads  them 
into  vices;  their  vices  into  misfortunes;  and  in  their  misfor- 
tunes they  "  murmur  against  Providence." 

10  They  ai'e  doubly  unjust  towards  their  Creator.  In  their 
prosperity,  they  are  apt  to  ascribe  their  success  to  their  own 
diligence,  rather  thaa  to  his  blessing ;  lu^d  in  their  adversity, 


sro 


THB  ENGLISH  READER.        Part   f. 


they  impute  their  distresses  to  his  providence,  not  to  their 
own  misbehaviour.  Whereas,  the  truth  is  the  ver)'  reverse 
of  this.  "  Every  good  and  every  nerfect  gift  cometh  from 
above ;"  and  of  evil  and  misery,  man  is  the  author  to  himself. 

11  When,  from  the  condition  of  individuals,  we  look 
abroad  to  the  public  state  of  the  world,  we  meet  with  more 
proofs  of  the  truth  of  this  assertion.  We  see  great  societies 
of  men  torn  in  pieces  by  intestine  dissensions,  tumults,  and 
civil  commotions.  We  gee  mighty  armies  going  forth,  in 
formidable  array,  against  each  other,  to  cover  the  earth  with 
blood,  and  to  fill  the  air  with  the  cries  of  widows  and 
orphans.  Sad  evils  these  are,  to  which  this  miserable  world 
19  exposed. 

12  But  are  these  evils,  I  beseech  you,  to  be  imputed  to 
God  ?  Was  it  he  who  sent  forth  slaughtering  armies  into  the 
field,  or  who  filled  the  peaceful  city  with  massacres  and 
blood  ?  Are  these  miseries  any  other  than  the  bitter  fruit  of 
men's  violent  and  disorderly  passions  ?  Are  they  not  clearly 
to  be  traced  to  the  ambition  and  vices  of  princes,  to  the 
quarrels  of  the  great,  and  to  the  turbulence  of  the  pepple? 
Let  us  lay  them  entirely  out  of  the  account,  in  thinking  of 
Pj^vidence,  and  let  us  think  only  of  the  "  foolishness  of  man." 
^^3  Did  man  control  his  passions,  and  form  his  conduct 
According  to  the  dictates  of  wisdom,  humanity,  and  virtue, 
the  eai'th  would  no  longer  be  desolated  by  cruelty ;  and  human 
societies  would  live  in  order,  harmony,  and  peace.  In  those 
scenes  of  mischief  and  violence  which  fill  the  world,  let  man 
behold,  with  shame,  the  picture  of  his  vices,  his  ignorance, 
and  folly.  Let  him  be  humbled  by  the  mortifying  view  of 
his  own  perverseuess ;  but  let  not  his  **  heart  fret  against  the 

Lovd.'^  ^V  BLAIR. 

SECTION  V. 

On  disinterested  Friendship, 

1  AM  informed  that  certain  Greek  writers,  (pliilosophers, 
it  seems,  in  the  opinion  of  their  countr3rmen,)  have  advanced 
some  very  extraordinary  positions  relating  to  friendship;  as, 
indeed,  what  subject  is  there,  which  these  subtle  geniuses 
have  not  tortured  with  their  sophistry  ? 

2  The  authors  to  whom  I  refer,  dissuade  their  disciples 
from  entering  into  any  strong  attachments,  as  unavoidably 
creating  supernumerary  disquietudes  to  those  who  engage  in 
them;  and,  as  every  man  has  more  than  sufficient  to  call 
forth  his  solicitude,  in  the  course  of  his  own  a^airs,  it  is  a 


Chap.  III.    ARGUMENTATITE  PIECES. 


n 


weakness,  they  contend,  anxiously  to  involve  himself  in  the 
concerns  of  others. 

3  They  recommend  it  also,  in  all  connexions  of  this  kind, 
to  hold  the  bands  of  union  extremely  loose ;  so  as  always  to 
have  it  in  one*s  power  to  straiten  or  relax  them,  as  circum- 
stances and  situations  shall  render  most  expedient.  They 
add,  as  a  capital  article  of  their  doctrine,  that  "  to  live  ex- 
empt from  cares,  is  an  essentia)  ingredient  to  constitute  hu- 
man happiness ; "  but  an  ingredient,  however,  which  he 
who  voluntarily  distresses  himself  with  cares,  in  which  he 
has  no  necessary  and  personal  interest,  must  never  hope  te 
possess." 

4  I  have  been  told  likewise,  that  there  is  another  set  oi^». 
pretended  philosophers,  of  the  same  country,  whose  tenets 
concerning  this  subject,  are  of  a  still  more  illiberal  and  un- 
generous cast.  The  proposition  which  they  attempt  to  estab- 
lish, is,  that  "  friendship  is  an  affair  of  self-interest  entirely ; 
and  that  the  prober  motive  for  engaging  in  it,  is,  not  in  order 
to  gratify  the  kind  and  benevolent  affections,  but  for  the  be- 
nefit of  that  assistance  and  support  which  are  to  be  derived 
from  the  connexion." 

5  Accordingly  they  assert,  that  those  persons  are  most 
di^osed  to  have  recourse  to  auxiliary  alliances  of  this  kiiu^ 
who  are  least  qualified  by  nature,  or  fortune,  to  depend  upon 
their  own  strength  and  powers  ;  the  weaker  sex,  for  instance, 
being  generally  more  inclined  to  engage  in  friendships  thau 
the  made  part  of  our  species ;  and  those  who  are  depressed 
by  indigence,  or  labouring  under  misfortunes,  than  th^ 
wealthy  and  the  prosperous. 

6  Excellent  and  obliging  sages,  these,  undoubtedly!  To 
strike  out  the  friendly  affections  from  the  moral  world,  would 
be  like  extinguishing  the  sun  in  the  natural ;  each  of  theia 
being  the  source  of  the  best  and  most  grateful  satisfactions, 
that  Heaven  has  coiiferred  on  tiie  sons  of  men.  But  I  should 
be  glad  to  know,  what  tl.e  real  value  of  this  boyy^ed  exemp- 
tion from  care,  wliich  they  proiu  se  their  disciples,  justly 
amoMuts  to?  an  exemption  fla.eiing  to  self-love,  I  confess; 
bin  which,  upon  many  occurrences  in  human  life,  should  be 
rejected  with  the  utmost  disdaiii. 

7  For  nothing,  surely,  can  be  more  inconsistent  with  a 
well-poised  and  manly  spirit,  than  to  decline  eagaging  in  any 
laudable  action,  or  to  be  discouraged  from  persevering  in  it, 
by  an  appr«»heusion  of  the  trouble  and  solicitude  with  which 
it  may  probably  be  atten^dctl. 


72 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Paut  I. 


•  ■< 


S  Virtue  herself,  indeed,  ought  to  be  totally  renounced,  if 
it  be  right  to  avoid  every  possible  means  that  may  be  produc- 
tive of  uneasiness;  for  who,  that  is  actuated  by  her  princi- 
ples, can  observe  the  conduct  of  an  opposite  character,  with- 
out being  affected  with  some  degree  of  secret  dissatisfaction? 
9  Are  not  the  just,  the. brave,  and  the  goofi,  necessarily 
exposed  to  the  disagreeable  emotions  of  dislike  and  avpraion, 
when  they  respectively  meet  with  instances  of  fraud,  of  cow- 
ardice, or  of  villany  ?    It  is  an  essential  property  of  every 
well-constituted  mind,  to  be  affected  with  pain,  or  pleasure, 
according  to  the  nature  of  those  moral  appearances  that  pre- 
,*  sent  themselves  to  observation. 
^^4}    10  If  sensibility,  therefore,  be  not  incompatible  with  true 
wisdom,  (and  it  surely  is  not,  unless  we  suppose  that  philoso- 
phy deadens  every  finer  feeling  of  our  nature,)  what  just  rea- 
son can  be  assigned,  why  the  sympathetic  sufferings  which 
may  result  from  friendship,  should  be  a  sufficient  inducement 
for  banishing  that  generous  affection  from  the  human  breast  1 
11  Extinguish  all  emotions  of  the  heart,  and  what  differ- 
ence will  remain,  I  do  not  say  between  man  and  brute,  but 
between  man  and  a  mere  inanimate  clod  ?   Away,  then,  with 
those  austere  philosophers,  who  represent  virtue  as  harden- 
mg  the  soul  against  all  the  softer  impressions  of  humanity ! 
"f    12  The  fact,  certainly,  is  much  otherwise.    A  truly  good 
/man,  is,  upon  many  occasions,  extremely  susceptible  of  ten- 
.'  der  sentiments ;  and  his  heart  expands  with  joy,  or  shrinks 
with  sorrow,  as  good  or  ill  fortune  accompanies  his  friend. 
Upon  the  whole,  then,  it  may  fairly  be  concluded,  that,  as 
in  the  case  of  virtue,  so  in  that  of  friendship,  those  painful 
sensations  which  may  sometimes  be  produced  by  the  one,  as 
well  as  by  the  other,  are  equally  insufficient  gl'ounds  for  ex- 
cluding either  of  them  tVoni  taking  possession  of  our  bosoms. 

13  They  who  insist  that  *'  utility  is  the  first  and  prevailing 
motive,  which  induces  niajikind  to  enter  into  particular 
friendships,"  appear  to  mo  to  divest  the  association  of  its  most 
amiable  and  engaging  principle.  For,. to  a  mind  rightly  dis- 
posed, it  is  not  so  much  the  henefits  received,  as  the  affec- 
tionate zeal  from  which  they  flow,  that  gives  t'^em  their  best 
and  most  valuable  recommendation. 

14  It  i^  so  far  indeed  from  being  verified  by  fact,  that  a 
sense  of  our  wants,  is  the  original  cause  of  forming  these  ami- 
cable alliances,  that  on  the  contrary,  it  is  observivble,  that 
none  have  been  more  distinguished  in  their  friendships  than 
those,  whose  power  miU  opulewc^.  but  above  a-H,  whose  supe- 


Chap.  IV.    ARGUMENTATIVE  PIECES. 


7d 


rlor  virtue,  (a  much  firmer  support,)  have  raised  them  above 
every  necessity  of  having  recourse  to  the  assistance  of  others. 

15  The  true  distinction,  then,  in  this  question,  is,  that  **a3 
though  friendship  is  certainly  productive  of  utility,  yet  utility 
is  not  the  primary  motive  of  friendship."  Those  selfish  sen- 
sualists, therefore,  who,  lulled  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  presume 
to  maintain  the  reverae,  have  siirely  no  claim  to  attention ; 
as  they  ai'e  neither  qualified  by  reflection,  nor  experience, 
to  be  competent  judges  of  the  subject. 

16  Is  there  a  man  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  who  would 
deliberately  accept  of  all  the  wealth,  which  this  world  can 
bestow,  if  offered  to  him  upon  the  severe  terms  of  his  being 
unconnected  with  a  single  moi'tal  whom  he  could  love,  or  by 
whom  he  should  be  beloved  i  This  would  be  to  lead  the 
wretched  life  of  a  detested  tyrant,  who,  amidst  perpetual 
suspicions,  and  alarms,  passes  his  miserable  days,  a-itran^eP 
to  every  tender  sentiment ;  and  utterly  precluded  from  the 
heart-felt  satisfactions  of  friendship. 

JStlehnotWs  translation  of  Cicero^s  Lalius, 

SECTION  VI. 

On  the  Immortality  of  the  SottI, 

1  WAS  yesterday  walking  alone  in  one  of  my  friend^jsT 
woods ;  and  lost  myself  in  it  very  apjreeably,  as  1  was  running 
over,  in  my  mind,  the  several  arguments  that  establish  this 
great  point;  which  is  the  basis  of  morality,  and  the  source  of 
all  the  pleasing  hopes,  and  secret  joys,  that  can  arise  in  the 
heart  of  a  reasonable  creature.  .  *^ 

2  I  consider  those  several  proofs  drawn — First,  from  the 
nature  of  the  soul  itself,  and  particularly  its  immateriality ; 
which,  though  not  absolutely  necessary  to  the  eternity  of  itsdu* 
ration,  has,  I  think,  been  evinced  almost  to  a  demonstration. 

3  Secondly,  from  its  passions  and  sentunents  ;  as  par- 
ticularlyj  from  its  love  of  existence ;  its  horror  oi'  annihila- 
tion ;  and  its  hopes  of  immortality ;  vvith  that  secret  satis- 
faction which  it  nnds  in  the  practice  ofviitue ;  and  that  unea- 
siness which  follows  upon  the  commission  of  vice.  Thirdly, 
from  the  nature  of  the  Supreme  Being,  whose  jnslice,  good- 
ness, wisdom,  and  veracity,  are  all  concerned  in  this  point. 

4  But  among  these,  and  other  excellent  arguments  for  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  there  is  one  drawn  from  the  perpetual 
progress  of  the  soul  to  its  perfection,  without  a  possibility 
of  ever  aniving  at  it ;  which  is  a  nint  tliat  I  do  not  jemembcr 
to  have  seen  opened  anii  improved  by  others  wke  have  written 

at 


^"  fi. 


^  if;. 


r 


'|:f <•■•'■' 


74 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


on  this  subject,  though  it  seems  to  me  to  carry  a  very  great 
weight  with  it. 

5  How  can  it  enter  into  the  thoughts  of  man,  that  the  soul, 
which  is  capable  of  immense  perfections,  and  of  receiving 
new  improvements  to  all  eternity,  shall  fall  away  into  nothing, 
almost  as  soon  as  it  is  created  ?  Are  such  abilities  made  for 
no  purpose?  A  brute  arrives  at  a  point  of  perfection,  that  he 
can  never  pass  ;  in  a  few  years  he  has  all  the  endowments  he 
is  capable  of ;  and  were  he  to  live  ten  thousand  more,  woujd 
be  the  same  thing  he  is  at  present. 

1^  6  Were  a  human  soul  thus  at  a  stand  in  her  accomplish^ 
ments ;  were  her  faculties  to  be  full  blown,  and  incapable  of 
farther  enlargements ;  I  could  imagine  she  might  fall  away  in- 
sensibly, and  drop  at  once  into  a  state  of  annihilation.  But 
can  we  believe  a  thinking  being,  that  ic  in  a  perpetual  progress 
of  imnrcvement,  and  travelling  on  from  perfection  to  perfec- 
tion, after  having  just  looked  abroad  into  the  works  of  her 
Creator,  and  made  a  few  discoveries  of  his  infinite  goodness, 
wisdom,  and  power,  must  perish  at  her  tirst  setting  out,  and 
m  the  very  beginning  of  her  inquiries  1 

7  Man,  considered  only  in  his  present  state,  seems  sent 
into  the  world  merely  to  propagate  his  kind.  He  provides 
himself  with  a  successor,  and  immediately  quits  his  post  to 
make  room  for  him.  He  does  not  seem  born  to  enjoy  life, 
but  to  deliver  it  down  to  others.  This  is  not  surprising  to 
consider  in  animals,  which  are  formed  for  our  use,  and  which 
can  finish  their  business  in  a  short  life. 

8  The  silk- worm,  after  having  spun  her  task,  lays  her 
eg§^  and  dies.  But  a  man  cannot  take  in  his  full  measure 
ojf  knowledge,  has  not  time  to  subdue  his  passions,  establish 
his  soul  in  virtue,  and  come  to  the  perfection  of  his  na- 
ture, before  he  is  hurried  off  the  stage.  Would  an  infinitely 
wise  Being  make  such  glorious  creatures  for  so  mean  a  pur- 
pose ?  Can  he  delight  in  the  production  of  such  abortive  in- 
telligences, such  short-lived  reasonable  beings?  Would  he 
give  us  talents  that  are  not  to  be  exerted  I  capacities  that  are 
never  to  be  gratified  ? 

9  How  can  we  find  that  wisdom  which  shines  through  all 
his  works,  in  the  formation  of  man,  without  looking  on  this 
world  as  only  a  nursery  for  the  next ;  and  without  believing 
that  the  several  generalims  of  rational  creatures,  ^vhich  ri33 
up  and  disappear  in  such  quick  successions,  are  only  to  re 
ceiv«  their  nrst  rudiments  of  existence  here,  and  alt(;rvrard3 


til 


■f-.^^ 


Cha?.  IV.     ARGUMENTATIVE  PIECES. 


7« 


to  be  transplanted  into  a  more  friendly  climate,  where  they 
may  spread  and  flourish  to  all  eternity  ? 

10  There  is  not,  in  my  opinion,  a  more  pleasing  and  tri- 
umphant consideration  in  religion,  than  this  of  the  perpetual 
progress  which  the  soul  makes  towards  the  perfection  of  its 
nature,  without  ever  arriving  at  a  period  in  it.  To  look 
upon  the  soul  as  going  on  from  strength  to  strength ;  to  con- 
sider that  she  is  to  shine  for  ever  with  new  accessions  of  glo- 
rjy  and  brighten  to  all  eternity ;  that  she  will  be  still  adding 
virtue  to  virtue,  and  knowledge  to  knowledge ;  carries  in  it 
something  wonderfully  agreeable  to  that  ambition  which  is 
natural  to  the  mind  of  man.  Nay,  it  must  be  a  prospect 
pleasing  to  God  himself,  to  see  his  creation  for  ever  beautify- 
ing in  his  eyes ;  and  drawing  nearer  to  him,  by  greater  de- 
grees of  resemblance. 

11  Methinks  this  single  consideration  of  the  progress  of  a 
finite  spirit  to  perfection,  will  be  sufficient  to  extinguish  all 
envy  in  inferior  natures,  and  all  contempt  in  superior.  That 
cherub,  which  now  appears  as  a  god  to  a  human  soul,  knows 
very  well  that  the  period  will  come  about  in  eternity,  when 
the  human  soul  shall  be  as  perfect  as  he  himself  now  is  ;  nay, 
when  she  shall  look  down  upon  that  degree  of  perfection  as 
much  as  she  now  falls  short  of  it.  It  is  true,  tlie  higher  na- 
ture still  advances,  and  by  that  means  preserves  his  distance 
and  superiority  in  the  scale  of  being ;  yet  he  knows  that, 
how  high  soever  the  station  is  of  which  he  stands  possessed 
at  present,  the  inferior  nature  will,  at  lengtli,  mount  up  lo 
it,  and  shine  forth  in  the  same  degree  of  glory. 

12  With  what  astonishment  and  veneration,  may  we  look 
into  our  own  souls,  where  there  are  such  hidden  stores  of  vir- 
tue and  knowledge,  such  inexhausted  sources  of  perfection ! 
We  know  not  yet  what  we  shall  be ;  nor  will  it  ever  enter  into 
the  heart  of  man,  to  conceive  the  glory  that  will  be  always  in 
reserve  for  him.  The  soul,  considered  with  its  Creator,  is 
like  one  of  those  mathematical  lines,  that  may  draw  nearer 
to  another  for  all  eternity,  without  a  possibility  of  touching  it : 
and  can  there  be  a  thought  so  transporting,  as  to  consider  our- 
selves in  these  perpetual  approaches  to  him,  who  is  the  stand- 
ard n«t  #nly  of  perfeeti«B,  but  ef  happiness !  ABPfsuNt 


-> 


-v:.:,j?» 


v$ 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I* 


CHAPTER  V. 
DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

The  Seasons, 

AMONG  the  great  blessings  and  wonders  of  the  creation, 
may  be  clasned  the  regularities  of  times,  and  seasons.  Im« 
mediately  after  the  flood,  the  sacred  promise  was  made  to 
man,  that  seed-time  and  harvest,  cold  and  heat,  summer 
and  winter,  day  and  night,  should  continue  to  the  very  end 
of  all  things.  Accordingly,  in  obedience  to  that  promise, 
the  rotation  is  constantly  presenting  us  with  some  useful  and 
agreeable  alteration ;  and  all  the  pleasing  novelty  of  life 
arises  from  these  natural  changes  ;  nor  are  we  less  indebted 
to  them  for  many  of  its  solid  comforts. 

2  It  has  been  frequently  the  task  of  the  moralist  and  poet, 
to  mark,  in  polished  periods,  the  particular  charms  and  con- 
veniences  of  every  change;  and,  indeed,  such  discriminate 
observations  upon  natural  variety,  cannot  be  undelightful ; 
since  the  blessing  which  every  mouth  brings  along  with  it,  is 
a  fresh  instance  of  the  wisdom  and  bounty  of  that  Providence, 
which  regulates  the  glories  of  the  year.  We  glow  as  we 
contemplate ;  we  feel  a  propensity  to  adore,  whilst  we  enjoy. 

3  In  the  time  of  seed-sowing,  it  is  the  season  of  confidence  : 
the  grain  which  the  husbandman  trusts  to  the  bosom  of  the 
earth,  shall,  haply,  yield  its  seven-fold  rewards.  Spring 
presents  us  with  a  scene  of  lively  expectation.  That  which 
was  before  sown,  begins  now  to  discover  signs  of  successful 
vegetation.  The  labourer  observes  the  change,  and  antici- 
pates the  harvest;  he  watches  the  progress  of  nature,  and 
smiles  at  her  influence ;  while  the  man  of  contemplation 
walks  forth  with  the  evening,  amidst  the  fragrance  of  flow- 
ers, and  promises  of  plenty;  nor  returns  to  his  cottage  till 
darkness  closes  the  scene  upon  his  eye.  Then  cometh  the 
harvest,  when  the  large  wish  is  satisfied,  and  the  granaries  of 
nature  are  loaded  with  the  means  of  life,  even  to  a  luxmy 
of  abundance. 

#4  The  powers  of  language  are  unequal  to  the  description 
of  this  happy  season.  It  is  the  carnival  of  nature :  sun  and 
shade,  coolness  and  quietude,  cheerfulness  and  melody, 
love  and  gratitude,  unite  to  render  every  scene  of  summer 
delightful.     The  division  of  light  and  darkness,  is  one  of  the 


"•■^.'. 


Chap.  V.        DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 


n 


kindest  efTorts  of  Omnipotent  Wisdom.  Day  and  night 
yield  us  contrary  blessings;  and,  at  the  same  time,  assist 
each  other,  by  giving  fresh  lustre  to  the  delights  of  both. 
Amidst  the  glare  of  day,  and  bustle  of  life,  how  could  we 
sleep?  Amidst  the  gloom  of  darkness,  how  could  we  labour? 
6  How  wise,  how  benignant,  then,  is  the  proper  division  i 
The  hours  of  light  are  c/'aot  J  to  activity  ;  and  tliose  of 
darkness,  to  rest.  Ere  the  day  is  passed,  exercise  and  na- 
ture prepare  us'  for  tlie  pillow ;  and  by  tlie  time  that  the 
morning  returns,  we  are  again  able  to  meet  it  with  a  smile. 
Thus,  every  season  has  a  charm  peculiar  to  itself;  and  every 
moment  affords  some  interesting  innovation.        melmoutii. 

SECTION  II. 

The  Cataract  of  jyiagara,  in  JVorth  America, 

THIS  amazing  fall  of  water  is  made  by  the  river  St.  Law 
rence,  in  its  passage  from  lake  Erie  into  the  lake  Ontario. 
The  St.  Lawrence  is  one  of  the  Inrc^est  rivers  in  the  world  , 
and  yet  the  whole  of  its  waters  is  discharged  in  this  place, 
by  a  fall  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  perpendicular.  It  is  not 
easy  to  bring  the  imagination  to  correspond  to  the  greatness 
of  the  scene. 

2  A  river  extremely  deep  and  rapid,  and  that  serves  to 
drain  the  waters  of  almost  all  North  America  into  the  Atlan- 
tic Ocean,  is  here  poured  precipitately  down  a  ledge  of  rocks, 
that  rises  like  a  wall,  across  the  whole  bed  of  its  stream. 
The  river,  a  little  above,  is  near  three  quarters  of  a  mile 
broad ;  and  the  rocks,  where  it  grows  narrower,  are  four 
hundred  yards  over. 

3  Their  direction  is  not  straight  across,  but  hollowing;  in- 
wards like  a  horse-shoe:  so  that  the  cataract,  which  bends  to 
the  shape  of  the  obstacle,  rounding  inwards,  presents  a  kind 
of  theatre,  the  most  tremendous  in  nature.  Just  in  the  mid- 
dle of  this  circular  wall  of  waters,  a  little  island,  that  has 
braved  the  fury  of  the  current,  presents  one  of  its  points,  and 
divides  the  stream  at  top  into  two  parts;  but  they  unite  again 
long  before  they  reach  the  bottom. 

4  The  noise  of  the  fall  is  heard  at  the  distance  of  several 
leagues:  and  the  fury  of  the  waters,  at  the  termination  of 
their  fall,  is  inconceivable.  The  dashing  produces  a  mist, 
that  rises  to  the  very  clouds ;  and  wkich  forms  a  most  beau- 
tiful rainbow,  when  the  sun  shines.  It  will  be  readily  sup- 
posed, that  such  a  cataract  entirely  destroys  the  navigation  of 

Q  2 


i 


?U 


^Wr 


78 


THE  ENGLISH  HEADER.        Part  I 


the  stream ;  and  yet  some  Indians,  in  their  canoes,  as  it  ii 
said,  have  ventured  down  it  with  safety.*  goldsmith. 

^  SECTION  ni. 

The  Grotto  of  Jlntiparos. 

OF  all  the  subterraneous  caverns  now  known,  the  grotto 
of  Antiparos  is  the  most  remarkable,  as  well  for  its  extent, 
as  for  the  beaiity  of  its  sparry  incnistations.  This  celebrattui 
cavern  was  first  explored  by  one  Magni,  an  Italian  traveller, 
about  one  hundred  years  ago,  at  Antiparos,  an  inconsidera- 
ble island  of  the  Archipelago. 

2  "  Having  been  informed,"  say^  he,  "by  the  natives  of 
Paros,  that,  in  tlie  little  island  of  Antiparos,  which  lies  about 
two  miles  from  the  fonner,  a  gigantic  statue  was  to  be  seen 
at  the  mouth  of  a  cavern  in  tliat  place  it  was  resolved  tliat 
we  (the  French  consul  and  himseli)  should  pay  it  a  visit.  In 
pur^'.uance  of  this  resolution,  after  we  had  landed  on  the 
island,  and  walked  al)out  four  miles  through  tlie  midst  of 
beautiful,  plains,  and  sloping  woodlands,  we  at  lengtli  came 
to  a  little  hill,  on  the  side  of  which  yawned  a  most  horrid 
cavern,  which,  by  its  gloom,  at  first  struck  us  with  terror, 
and  almost  repressed  curiosity.  ; 

3  Recovering  the  first  surprise,  however,  we  entered 
boldly,  and  had  not  proceeded  above  twenty  paces,  when 
the  supposed  statue  of  the  giant  presented  itself  to  our  view, 
We  quickly  perceived,  that  what  the  ignorant  natives  had 
been  terrified  at  as  a  giant,  was  nothing  more  tlian  a  sparry 
concretion,  formed  by  the  water  dropping  from  the  roof  of 
the  cave,  and  by  degrees  hardening  into  a  figure,  which  theu' 
Teal's  had  formed  into  a  monster.  «      .- 

4  Incited  by  tliis  extmordinary  appearance,  we  were  in- 
duced to  proceed  still  further,  in  quest  of  new  adventures  in 
this  subterranean  abode.  As  we  proceeded,  new  wonders  of- 
fered themselves;  the  spars,  formed  into  trees  and  shrubs, 
presented  a  kind  of  petrified  grove ;  some  white,  some  green ; 
and  all  receding  ki  due  perspective.  They  struck  us  with  the 
more  amazement,  as  we  knew  them  to  be  mere  productions 
of  nature,  who,  hitherto  in  solitude,  had,  in  her  playful  mo- 
ments, dressed  the  scene,  as  if  for  her  own  amusement." 

*  This  vetituring  damn  in  tafi  ty,  is  a  report,  bearing  upon  its  front  its  own  refuta- 
tion :  tliat  it  ever  should  have  found  a  place  in  tlie  brain  or  the  book  of  tlie  elt^gant 
liistorian,  is  a  matter  of  surprise.  Canoes  and  other  vcssoli*,  with  passeiigeia,  are, 
indeed,  sometimes  unfortunately  drawn  down  the  awful  declivity,  but  seldom  a  ven- 
tage of  either  is  ever  aflerwards  Been.  The  sturdy  mountain  oak,  and  the  towering; 
pine,  frequently  (altc  the  desperate  leap,  and  forever  disappear.  E  di 


■>■*• 


Vna.  T.        1»ESCR1PTIVE  PIECES. 


7d 


6  "  We  had  as  yet  seen  but  a  few  of  the  wondei's  of  tlie 
place;  and  we  were  uitroduced  only  into  the  portico  of  thi?* 
amazing  temple.  In  one  corner  of  this  half  illuminated  re- 
cess, there  appeared  an  opening  of  about  three  feet  wide, 
which  seemed  to  lead  to  a  place  totally  dark,  and  which  one 
of  the  natives  assured  us  contunied  nothing  more  than  a  reser- 
voir of  water.  Upon  this  information,  we  made  an  experi- 
ment, by  throwing  down  some  stones, .which  rumbling  along 
the  sides  of  the  descent  for  some  time,  tlie  sound  seemed  at 
last  quashed  in  a  bed  of  water. 

6  In  order,  however,  to  be  more  certain,  we  sent  in  a  Le- 
vai;itme  mariner,  who,  by  the  promise  of  a  good  regard, 
ventured,  with  a  flambeau  in  his  hand,  into  this  narrow  aper- 
ture. After  continuing  within  it  for  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  he  returned,  bearing  in  his  hand  some  beautiful  pieces 
of  white  spar,  which  art  could  neither  equal  nor  imitate. — 
Upon  beiiv'!^  informed  by  bun  that  the  place  was  full  of  these 
beautiful  incrustations,  I  ventured-  in  with  him,  about  fifty 
paces,  anxiously  and  cautiously  descending,  by  a  steep  and 
dangerous  way. 

7  Finding,  however,  that  we  came  to  a  precipice  which 
led  into  a  spacious  amphitlieatre,  (if  I  may  so  call  it,)  stll! 
deeper  than  any  other  part,  we  returned,  and  being  provided 
with  a  ladder,  flambeau,  and  other  things  to  expedite  our  de- 
scent, our  whole  company,  man  by  man,  ventured  into  the 
same  opening;  and,  descending  one  after  another,  we  at 
last  saw  ourselves  all  together  in  the  most  magnificent  part  ©f 
the  cavern." 

SECTION  IV. 

The  Grotto  of  AntiparoSj  continued, 

*'  OUR  candles  being  now  all  lighted  up,  and  the  whole 
place  completely  illuminated,  never  could  the  eye  be  pre- 
sented with  a  more  glittering,  or  a  more  magnificent  scene. 
The  whole  roof  hung  with  solid  icicles,  transparent  as  glass, 
yet  solid  as  marble.  The  eye  could  scarcely  reach  the  lofty 
and  noble  ceiling;  the  sides  were  regularly  formed  with 
spara;  and  the  whole  presented  the  idea  of  a  magnificent 
theatre,  illuminated  with  an  immense  profusion  of  lights. 

2  The  floor  consisted  of  solid  marble;  and,  in  several 
places,  magnificent  columns,  thrones,  altars,  and  other  ob- 
jects, appeared,  as  if  nature  had  designed  to  mock  the  curi- 
osities of  artv      ©ar  voices,  upon  speaking  f>v  singing,  were 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


redoubled  to  an  astonishing  loudness ;  and  upon  the  firing  of 
a  gun,  the  noise  and  reverberations  were  almost  deafening. 

3  In  the  midst  of  this  grand  amphitheatre  rose  a  concretion 
of  about  fifteen  feet  high,  tliat,  in  some  measure,  resembled  an 
altar ;  from  which,  taking  the  hint,  we  caused  mass  to  be 
celebrated  tliere.  The  beautiful  columns  that  shot  up  round 
the  altar,  appeared  like  candlesticks;  and  many  other  natural 
objects  represented  the  customary  ornaments  of  this  rite. 

4  Below  even  this  spacious  sr«»tto,  there  seemed  another 
cavern ;  down  which  t  ventured  with  my  former  mariner, 
and  descended  about  fifty  paces  by  means  of  a  vope.  I  at  last 
arrived  at  a  small  spot  of  level  ground,  where  the  bottom' 
appeared  different  from  that  of  the  amphitheatre,  being  com- 
posed of  soft  clay,  yielding  to  the  pressure,  and  into  which  I 
thrust  a  stick  to  the  depth  of  six  feet.  In  this,  however,  as 
above,  numbers  of  the  most  beautiful  crystals  were  formed; 
one  of  which,  in  particular,  resembled  a  table, 

5  Upon  our  egress  from  this  amazing  cavern,  we  perceived 
a  Greek  inscription  upon  a  rock  at  the  mouth,  but  so  oblitera- 
ted by  time,  that  we  could  not  read  it  distinctly.  It  seemed 
io  import,  that  one  Antipater,  In  the  time  of  Alexander,  had 
come  hither  ;  but  whether  he  penetrated  into  the  depths  ot 
the  cavern,  he  does  not  think  fit  to  inform  us." — This  account 
of  so  beautiful  and  striking  a  scene,  may  serve  to  give  us  some 
idea  of  the  subterraneous  wonders  of  nature.       goldsmitk. 

SECTION  V. 

Earthquake  at  Caianea, 

ONE  of  the  earthquakes  most  particularly  described  in  his- 
tory, is  that  which  happened  in  the  year  1693;  the  damages 
of  which  were  chiefly  felt  in  Sicily,  but  its  motion  was  per- 
ceived in  Germany,  France,  and  England.  It  extended  to 
a  circumference  of  two  thousand  six  hundred  leagues;  chiefly 
aftecting  the  sea  coasts,  and  great  rivers  ;  more  perceivable 
also  upon  the  mountains  than  in  the  valleys. 

2  Its  motions  were  so  rap'd,  that  persons  who  lay  at  their 
length,  were  tossed  from  side  to  side,  as  upon  a  rolling  bil- 
low. The  walls  were  dashed  from  their  foundations;  and 
no  fewer  than  fifty-four  cities,  with  an  incredible  number  of 
villages,  were  either  destroyed  or  greatly  damaged.  The 
cify  of  Catanea,  in  particular,  wiie  utterly  overthrowo.  A 
traveller  who  was  on  his  way  thither,  perceived,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  some  miles,  a  black  cloud,  like  night,  hanging  over 
the  places 


Chaf.  V.  DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 


81 


3  The  sea,  all  of  a  sudden,  began  to  roar ;  mount  Mtn^, 
to  send  forth  great  spires  of  flame ;  and  soon  ader  a  shock 
ensued^  with  a  noise  as  if  all  the  artillery  in  the  world  had  been 
at  once  discharged.  Our  traveller  being  obliged  to  alight  in- 
stantly, felt  himself  raised  a  foot  from  the  ground;  and 
turning  his  eyes  to  the  city,  he  with  amazement  saw  nothing 
but  a  diick  cloud  of  dust  in  the  air. 

4  The  birds  flew  about  astonished ;  the  sun  was  darkened ; 
the  beasts  ran  howling  from  the  hills ;  and  although  the  shock 
did  not  continue  above  three  minutes,  yet  nearly  nineteen 
thousand  of  the  inhabitants  of  Sicily,  perished  in  the  ruins. 
Catanea,  to  which  city  the  describer  was  travelling,  seemed 
the  principal  scene  of  ruin ,  its  place  only  was  to  be  found  ; 
and  not  a  footstep  of  its  former  magnificence  was  to  be  seen 
remaining.  goldsmith. 

SECTION  VI. 
^  Creation. 

IN  the  progress  of  the  Divine  works  and  government, 
there  arrived  a  period  in  which  this  earth  was  to  be  called 
into  existence.  When  the  signal  moment,  predestined  from 
all  eternity,  was  come,  the  Deity  arose  in  his  might,  and, 
with  a  word,  created  the  world.  What  an  illustrious  mo- 
ment was  that,  when,  from  non-existence,  there  sprang  at 
once  into  being,  this  mighty  globe,  on  which  so  many  mil- 
lions of  creatures  now  dwell ! 

2  No  preparatory  measures  were  required.  No  long  cir- 
cuit of  means  was  employed.  *<  He  spake  ;  and  it  was  done : 
he  commanded ;  and  it  stood  fast.  The  earth  was  at  first 
without  form,  and  void ;  and  darkness  was  on  the  face  of 
the  deep."  The  Almighty  surveyed  the  dark  abyss;  and 
fixed  bounds  to  the  several  divisions  of  nature.  He  said, 
"Let  there  be  light;  and  there  was  light." 

3  Then  appeared  the  sea.  and  the  dry  land.  The  moun- 
tains rose  ;  and  the  rivers  flowed.  The  sun  and  moon, 
began  their  course  in  the  skies.  Herbs  and  plants  clothed 
the  ground.  The  air,  the  earth,  and  the  waters,  were 
stored  with  their  respective  inhabitants.  At  last,  man  was 
made  afler  the  image  of  God. 

4  He  appeared,  walking  with  countenance  erect;  and  re- 
ceived his  Creator's  benediction,  as  the  Lord  of  this  new  world. 
The  Almighty  beheld  his  work  when  it  was  finished,  and 
pronounced  it  good.  Superior  beings  saw  with  wonder,  this 
new  accession  of  existence.  "  The  morning  stars  sang  to* 
gether  ;  and  all  the  sons  of  God,  shouted  for  joy." — ^blair. 


'f  J 


82 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part.  L 


SECTION  VII. 

Charity, 

CHARITY  IS  the  same  with  benevolence  or  love;  and 
is  the  term  uniformly  employed  in  the  New  Testament,  to 
denote  all  the  good  affections  which  we  ought  to  bear  towards 
one  another.  It  consists  not  in  speculative  ideas  of  general 
benevolence,  floating  in  the  head,  and  leaving  the  heart,  as 
speculations  too  often  do,  untouched  and  cold.  Neither  is 
it  confined  to  that  indolent  good  nature,  which  makes  us  rest 
satisfied  with  being  free  from  inveterate  malice  or  ill-will  to 
our  fellcw-creatures,  without  prompting  us  to  be  of  service 
to  any. 

2  True  charity  is  an  active  principle.  It  is  not  properly 
a  single  virtue;  but  a  disposition  residing  in  the  heart,  as  a 
fountain  whence  all  the  virtues  of  benignity,  candour,  for- 
bearance, generosity,  compassion,  and  liberalit!^  flow,  as 
so  many  native  streams.  From  general  good-will  to  all,  it 
extends  its  influence  particularly  to  those  with  whom  we 
stand  in  nearegt  connexion,  and  who  are  directly  within  the 
sphere  of  our  good  offices. 

3  From  the  country  or  community  to  which  we  belong, 
lit  descends  to  the  smaller  associations  of  neighbourhood,  ren 
lations,  and  friends  ;  and  spreads  itself  over  the  whole  cii^cle 
of  social  and  domestic  life.  J  mean  not  that  it  imports  a  pro- 
miscuous undistinguished  affection,  which  gives  every  man  an 
equal  title  to  our  love.  Charity,  if  we  should  endeavour  to 
carry  it  so  far,  would  be  rendered  an  impracticable  virtue  ; 
and  would  resolve  itself  into  mere  words,  without  affecting 
the  heart. 

4  True  charity  attempts  not  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  dis- 
tinction between  good  and  bad  men ;  nor  to  warm  our  hearts 
equally  to  those  who  befriend,  and  those  who  injure  us.  It 
reserves  our  esteem  for  good  men,  and  our  complacency 
for  our  friends.  Towards  our  enemies  it  inspires  forgive- 
ness, humanity,  and  a  solicitude  for  their  welfare.  It 
breathes  universal  candour,  and  liberality  of  sentiment.  It 
forms  gentleness  of  temper,  and  dictates  aflability  of  manners. 

5  It  prompts  corresponding  sympathies  with  them  who  re- 
joice, and  them  who  weep.  It  teaches  us  to  slight  and  de- 
spise no  man.  Charity  is  the  comforter  of  the  afflicted,  the 
protector  of  the  oppressed,  the  reconciler  of  differences,  the 
intercessor  for  ofl'enders.  It  is  faithfidness  in  the  friend, 
Jiublic  sj)irit  in  the  magistrate,  e<p!ity  nud  pntienre  in  the 


CuAF.  V.         DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES 


S3 


judge,  moderation  in  tlie  sovereign,  and  loyalty  in  tlie  sub- 
ject. 

6  In  parents,  it  is  care  and  attention ;  in  children,  it  iy 
reverence  and  submission.  In  a  word,  it  is  the  soul  of  social 
life.  It  is  the  sun  that  enlivens  and  cheers  the  abodes  of 
men.  It  is  "  like  the  dew  of  Ilermon,"  says  the  Psalmist, 
"  and  the  dew  that  descended  on  the  mountains  of  Zion, 
wnere  the  Lord  commanded  the  blessing,  even  life  for  ever- 


more. 


11 


BLAIR. 


SECTION  VIII. 

Prosperity  is  redoubled  to  a  good  J\Ian, 

NONE  but  the  temperate,  the  regular,  and  the  virtuous?, 
know  how  to  enjoy  prosperity.  They  bring  to  its  comforts 
the  manly  relish  of  a  sound  uncorrupted"  mind.  They  stop 
at  the  proper  point,  before  the  enjoyment  degenerates  into  dis- 
gust, and  pleasure  is  converted  into  pain.  They  are  stran- 
gers to  those  complaints  which  flow  from  spleen,  caprice,  and 
all  the  fantastical  distresses  of  a  vitiated  mind.  While  riotous 
indulgence  enervates  both  the  body  and  the  mind,  purity 
ind  virtue  heighten  all  the  powers  of  human  fruition. 

2  Feeble  are  all  pleasures  in  which  the  heart  has  no  share. 
The  selfish  gratifications  of  the  bad,  are  both  nan^ow  in  their 
circle,  and  short  •  in  their  duration.  But  prosperity  is  re- 
doubled to  a  good  man,  by  his  generous  use  of  it.  It  is  re- 
llocted  back  upon  him  from  every  one  whom  he  makes  hap- 
py. In  the  intercourse  of  domestic  affection,  in  the  attacl*- 
ment  of  friends,  the  gratitude  of  dependants,  the  esteem  and 
good-will  of  all  woo  know  him,  he  sees  blessings  multiplied 
I'ound  him,  on  every  side. 

3  "When  the  ear  heard  me,  then  it  blessed  me ;  and  when 
the  eye  saw  me,  it  gave  witness  to  me  :  because  I  delivered 
the  poor  that  cried,  the  fatherless,  and  him  that  had  nono 
to  help  him.  The  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish 
came  upon  me,  and  I  caused  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  with 
lov.  I  was  eyes  to  the  blind,  and  feet  was  I  to  the  lame : 
I  was  a  father  to  the  poor ;  and  the  cause  which  I  knew  not, 
I  searched  out." 

4  Thus,  while  the  righteous  man  flourishes  like  a  tree 
planted  by  the  rivers  of  water,  he  brings  forth  also  his  fruit 
in  its  season :  and  that  fruit  he  brings  forth,  not  for  himself 
alone.  H^  flourishes,  not  like  a  tree  in  some  solitary  desert 
which  scatters  its  blossoms  to  the  wind,  and  communicates 
neither  fruit  nor  shade  to  any  living  thing;  but  like  a  tiee  in 


;'      -■       'Iv 


Ik 


P 

i 

k 


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nil 


4 

■■1 
■11 

.'ti 


V" 


>?    t! 


84 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


the  midst  of  an  inhabited  country^  which  to  some  affords 
iriendly  shelter,  to  others  fruit ;  wiiich  is  not  only  admired 
by  all  for  its  beauty ;  but  blessed  by  the  traveller  for  the  shade, 
and  by  the  hungry  for  the  sustenance  it  hath  given,      blair. 

SECTION  IX. 

On  the  beauties  of  the  Psalms, 

GREATNESS  confers  no  exemption  from  the  cares  anil 
sorrows  of  life ;  its  share  of  them  frequently  bears  a  me- 
lancholy proportion  to  its  exaltation.  This  the  monarch  of 
Israel  experienced.  He  sought  in  piety,  that  peace  which 
he  could  not  find  in  empire ;  and  alleviated  the  disquiet  uUes 
of  state,  with  the  ex€rcise  of  devotion.  His  invaluable 
Psalms  convey  those  comforts  to  others  which  they  afforded 
to  himself. 

2  Composed  upon  particular  occasions,  yet  designed  for 
general  use  ;  delivered  out  as  sendees  for  Israelites  under  the 
Law,  yet  no  less  adapted  to  the  circumstances  of  Christians 
under  the  Gospel ;  they  present  religion  to  us  in  the  most 
engaging  dress ;  communicating  truths  which  philo!st»phy 
could  never  investigate,  in  a  style  which  poetry  can  never  equal ; 
while  history  is  made  the  vehicle  of  prophecy,  and  creation 
lends  all  its  charms  to  paint  the  glories  of  redemption. 

3  Calculated  alike  to  profit  and  to  please,  they  inform  the 
understanding,  elevate  the  affections,  and  entertain  the  ima- 
gination. Indited  under  the  influence  of  him,  to  whom  all 
hearts  are  known,  and  all  events  foreknown,  they  suit  man- 
kind in  all  situations;  grateful  as  the  manna  which  descend- 
ed from  above,  and  conformed  ijself  to  every  palate. 

4  The  fairest  productions  of  human  wit,  after  a  few  peru- 
sals, like  gathered  flowers,  wither  in  our  hands,  and  lose  their 
fragrancy ;  but  these  unfading  plants  of  paradise  become,  as 
we  are  accustomed  to  them,  still  more  and  more  beautiful  ; 
their  bloom  appears  to  be  daily  heightened  ;  fresh  odours  aie 
emitted,  and  nevs^  sweets  extracted  from  them.  He  who  has 
once  tasted  their  excellences,  will  desire  to  taste  them  again ; 
and  he  who  tastes  them  oftenest,  will  relish  them  best. 

5  And  now,  could  the  author  flatter  himself,  that  any  one 
wo7ald  take  half  the  pleasure  in  reading  his  work,  which  lie 
has  taken  in  writing  it,  he  would  not  fear  the  loss  of  his  la- 
bour. The  employment  detached  him  from  the  bustle  and 
hurry  of  life,  the  din  of  politics,  and  the  noise  of  folly.  Vani- 
ty and  vexation  flev/  away  for  a  season  ;  care  and  disquie- 
tude came  not  near  his  dweliiner.     U(^  arose,  fje^^h  as  the 


sm^ 


Cka».  V. 


DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 


86 


morning,  to.  his  task ;  the  silence  of  the  night  invited  him 
to  pursue  it ;  and  he  can  truly  say,  that  food  and  rest  were 
not  preferred  before  it. 

6  Every  psalm  improved  infinitely  upon  his  acquaintance 
with  it,  and  no  one  gave  him  uneasiness  but  the  la^^t ;  for  then 
he  grieved  that  his  work  was  done.  Happier  hours  th^n 
those  which  have  been  spent  in  these  meditations  on  the  sonji-s 
of  Sion,  he  never  expects  to  see  in  this  world.  Very  ple;i- 
santly  did  they  pass  ;  they  moved  smoothly  and  swiftly  along-: 
for  when  thus  engaged,  he  counted  no  time.  They  are  gone, 
but  they  have  left  a  relish  and  a  fragrance  upon  the  mind  ; 
and  the  remembrance  of  them  is  sweet.  houne. 

SECTION  X. 

Character  of  Alfred,  King  of  England. 

THE  merit  of  this  prince,  both  in  private  and  public  life, 
may,  with  advantage,  be  set  in  opposition  to  that  of  any  mo- 
narch or  citizen,  which  the  annals  of  any  age,  or  any  na- 
tion, can  present  to  us.  He  seems,  indeed,  to  be  the  com- 
plete model  of  that  perftxt  character,  which,  under  the  de- 
nomination oi'  a  sage  or  wise  man,  iite  philosophers  have 
been  fond  of  delineatinij,  rather  as  a  fiction  of  their  imagina- 
t*  i,  than  in  hopes  of  ever  seeing  it  reduced  to  practice  ;  so 
iiappily  were  all  his  virtues  tempered  together ;  so  justly 
were  they  blended  ;  and  so  powerfully  did  each  prevent  the 
other  from  exceeding  its  proper  bounds. 

2  He  knew  how  to  conciliate  the  most  enterprising  spirit, 
with  the  coolest  moderation ;  the  most  obstinate  perseve- 
rance, with  the  easiest  flexibility ;  the  most  severe  justice, 
with  the  greatest  lenity^ ;  the  greatest  rigour  in  command, 
with  the  greatect  affability  of  deportment ;  the  highest  capa- 
city and  inclination  for  science,  with  the  most  shining  talents 
for  action. 

3  Nature  also,  as  ii  desirous  that  so  bright  a  production  of  Ifer 
skill  should  be  set  m  the  fairest  light,  had  bestowed  on  him 
all  bodily  accomplisr  ments ;  vigour  of  limbs,  dignity  of  shape 
and  air,  and  a  pleasant,  engaging,  and  open  countenance. 
By  living  in  that  barbarous  age,  he  was  deprived  of  histori- 
ans worthy  to  transmit  his  fame  to  posterity  ;  and  we  wish  to 
see  him  delineated  in  more  lively  colours,  and  with  more 
particular  strokes,  that  we  might  at  least  perceive  some  of 
lii038  small  specks  and  blemisht^s,  from  which,  as  a  man, 
it  is  impoEsible  he  could  be  entirely  exempted.  iixjme 


^'U 


V; 


:<i 


■rh  n 


Mh^ 


H 


m 


86 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


SECTION  XI. 

Character  of  QvEES  Elizabeth. 

THERE  are  few  personages  in  history,  who  have  been 
mo^e  exposed  to  the  cahunny  of  enemies,  aiul  the  adulation  of 
friends,  than  Queen  Elizabeth ;  and  yet  there  scarcely  is 
aiiy  whose  reputation  has  been  n»ore  certainly  (b:;termined  by 
the  unanimous  conseiit  of  posterity.  Tiie  unusual  length  of 
her  administration,  and  the  strong  Tenures  of  her  character, 
were  able  to  overcome  all  prejudices  ;  and,  obliging  her  de- 
tractore  to  abate  much  of  their  invectivch,  an(i  her  achnirers 
somewhat  of  their  panegyrics,  have,  at  last,  in  spite  of  poli- 
tical factions,  and  what  is  more,  of  religious  animosities, 
produced  a  uniform  judgment  with  regard  to  her  conduct. 

2  Her  vigour,  her  ronstancVj  her  magnanimity,  her  pene- 
trtttion,  vigilance,  and  address,  are  allowed  to  merit  the  high- 
est praises;  and  appear  not  to  have  been  surpassed  by  any  per- 
soii  who  ever  filled  a  throne:  a  conduct  less  rigorous,  less  im- 
perious, more  sincere,  more  indulgent  to  her  people,  would 
have  been  ref'uisite  to  form  a  perfect  ciiaracter.  By  the  force 
of  her  m  id,  she  controlled  all  tier  more  active,  and  stronger 
qualities,  and  prevented  them  from  running  into  excess. 

3  Her  heroism  was  exempted  from  all  tem.erity  ;  her  fru- 
gality from  avarice  •  her  friendship  fram  partiality ;  her 
enterprise  from  turbulency  and  a  vain  ambition.  She  guard- 
<d  not  herself,  with  equal  care,  or  equal  success,  from  less 
infirmities ;  the  riv^lship  of  beauty,  the  desire  of  admiration, 
the  Jealotisy  v-)i  love,  and  ^he  sallies  of  anger. 

4  Her  sirgular  talentb  !br  government,  were  founded 
equally  on  her  temper  and  on  her  capacity.  Endowed  with 
a  great  command  over  herself,  she  soon  obtained  an  uncon- 
trolled ascendancy  over  the  people.  Few  sovereigns  of  Eng- 
land succjeded  to  the  throne  in  more  difficult  circumstances; 
and  none  ever  conducted  the  government  with  so  uniform 
success  and  felicity. 

6  Though  unacquainted  with  the  practice  of  toleration, 
the  true  secret  for  managing  religious  faction*,  she  preserved 
Jier  people,  by  her  superior  prudence,  from  those  confusions 
in  which  theological  controversy  had  involved  all  the  neigh- 
bouring nations  ;  and  though  h  ;'•  enemies  \iere  the  mns 
powerful  princes  of  Europe,  the  mcfit  active,  the  most  en- 
terprizing,  the  least  scrupulous,  she  was  able,  by  her  vigour, 
to  make  deep  impressions  on  their  state  ;  her  own  greatnes-s 
meanwhile  remaining  untouched  and  unimpaired!. 


'mim^ 


Chap.  V. 


DESCRIPTIVE  riECES. 


87 


6  The  wise  mlni^ttors  and  brave  men  who  flourished  Ru- 
ling her  reii^n,  share  the  praise  of  her  ^^-'ccess  ;  but  instead 
of  lessening  the  apphnise  due  to  her,  •  make  great  addi- 
tion to  it.  They  owed,  all  of  them,  tueir  advancement  to 
her  choire  ;  tliey  were  supported  by  her  constancy  ;  and, 
widi  all  their  ability,  they  were  never  able  to  ac<]ui  •  an  un- 
tiue  ascendancy  over  her. 

7  In  her  family,  i?i  her  court,  in  her  kinnjdam,  she  remain- 
ed emially  miistress.  The  force  of  the  tent!*'''  ■  "wions  wad 
great  over  her;  but  the  force  of  her  mind  w.  ♦  superior; 
and  the  combut  wliich  hor  victory  visibly  cost  lu  ,  i^erves  only 
to  display  the  lirnniess  of  her  resolution,  and  the  loftiness  of 
her  ambitious  sent  ime) its. 

8  The  fame  of  this  prinre^s,  tl^uuh  it  has  surmounted  the 
prejudices  both  of  faction  nud  of  bigotry,  ?<'t  lies  still  exposed 
to  another  prejudic  *,  which  is  more  durable,  because  more 
natural ;  and  which,  arcordinf^  to  the  diH'erent  views  in 
which  we  survey  her,  is  capable  either  of  exalting  beyond 
measure,  or  diminishine;  the  lustre  of  her  character.  Thi 
prejudice  is  founded  on  the  consideration  of  her  sex. 

9  When  we  contemplate  her  as  a  woman,  we  are  apt  to 
be  struck  with  the  hlLhest  admiration  of  her  qualities  and  ex- 
tensive capacity ;  but  we  are  also  apt  to  require  some  more 
softness  of  disposition,  some  greater  lenity  of  temper,  some 
of  those  amiable  weaknesses- by  which  her  sex  is  distinguish- 
ed. But  the  true  method  of  estimatinu:  her  merit,  is  to  lay 
aside  all  these  considerations,  and  to  consider  her  merely  as 
a  rational  being,  placed  in  authority,  and  intrusted  with  the 
government  of  mankind.  hume. 

SI  I  HON   \n. 

The  slavery  of  y^ice. 

THE  slavery  produced  by  vice  appears  in  the  depend- 
ence under  which  it  brings  the  sinner,  to  circumstances  ol 
external  fortune.  One  of  the  favourite  characters  of  liber- 
ty, is  the  independence  it  bestows.  He  who  is  truly  a  free- 
man, is  above  all  servile  compliances,  and  abject  subjection. 
He  is  able  to  rest  upon  himself;  and  while  he  regards  big 
'uperiors  with  proper  deference,  neither  debases  himself  by 
cringing'  to  them,  nor  is  tempted  to  purchase  their  favour 
by  dishonourabie  means.  But  tii8  sinner  has  forfeited  every 
privilege  of  this  nature. 

2  His  passions  and  habits  render  him  an  absolute  depend- 
ant on  the  ^Norldj  and  tiie  world's  favour;  on  the  imcertaia 


4V 


m 

:i  r 
i't. 

4 


:i 


...Ai 


'^  11 


•;^*; 


8S 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Pait  I. 


goods  of  fortune,  and  the  fickle  humours  of  men.  For  it  is 
by  these  he  subsists,  and  among  these  his  happiness  is  sought ; 
according  as  his  passions  determine  him  to  pursue  pleasures,, 
riches,  or  preferments.  Having  no  fund  within  himself 
whence  to  draw  enjoyment,  his  only  resource  is  in  thingg 
without.  His  hopes  and  fears  all  hang  upon  the  world.  He 
partakes  in  all  its  vicissitudes ;  and  is  moved  and  shaken  by 
every  wind  of  fortune.  This  is  to  be,  in  the  strictest  sense,  a 
slave  to  the  world. 

3  Religion  and  virtue,  on  the  other  hand,  confer  on  the 
mind  principles  of  noble  independence.  ^*  The  upright  man 
is  satisfied  from  himself."  He  despises  not  the  advantages  of 
fortune,  but  he  centres  not  his  happiness  in  them.  With  ^. 
moderate  share  of  them  he  can  be  contented ;  and  content* 
ment  is  felicity.  Happy  in  his  own  integrity,  conscious  of 
the  esteem  of  good  men,  reposing  firm  trust  in  the  providence, 
and  the  promises  of  God,  he  is  exempted  from  servile  depend- 
ence on  other  things. 

4  He  can  wrap  himself  up  in  a  good  conscience,  and  look 
forward,  without  terror,  to  the  change  of  the  world.  Let  all 
things  fluctuate  around  him  as  they  please,  he  believes  that,  by 
the  1  >ivine  ordination,  they  shall  be  made  to  work  together  in 
the  issue  for  his  good  :  and,  therefore,  having  much  to  hope 
from  God,  and  little  to  fear  from  the  world,  he  can  be  easy  in 
every  state.  One  who  possesses  within  himself  such  an  esta- 
blishment of  mind,  is  truly  free. 

5  But  shall  I  call  that  man  free,  who  has  nothing  that  is  his 
own,  no  property  assured ;  whose  very  heart  is  not  his  own, 
but  rendered  the  appendage  of  external  thin^^s,  and  the  sport 
of  fortune  ?  Is  that  man  free,  let  his  outward  condition  be 
ever  so  splendid,  whom  his  imperious  passions  detain  at 
their  call,  whom  they  send  forth  at  their  pleasure,  to  drudge 
and  toil,  and  to  beg  his  only  enjoyment  from  the  casualties 
of  the  world  1 

6  Is  he  free,  who  must  flatter  and  lie  to  compass  his  ends ; 
who  must  bear  with  this  man's  caprice,  and  that  man's  scorn  ; 
must  profess  friendship  where  he  hates,  and  respect  where  he 
contemns ;  who  is  not  at  liberty  to  appear  in  his  own  colours, 
nor  to  speak  his  own  sentiments ;  who  dares  not  be  honest, 
lest  he  should  be  poor  ? 

7  Believe  it,  no  chains  bind  so  hard,  no  fetters  are  so  hea- 
vy, as  those  which  fasten  the  corrupted  heart  to  this  treache- 
rous world ;  no  dependence  is  more  contemptible  than  that 
under  which  the  voluptuous,  the  covetous,  or  the  ambitious 


Chap.  V. 


DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 


8^ 


man,  lies  to  the  means  of  pleasure,  gain,  or  power.  Tet 
this  is  the  boasted  liberty  which  vice  promises,  as  the  recom- 
pense of  setting  us  free  from  the  salutary  restraints  of  virtue. 


BLAIR. 


SECTION  XIII. 


The  man  of  Integrity, 

IT  will  not  take  much  time  to  delineate  the  character  of 
the  man  of  integrity,  as  by  its  nature  it  is  a  plain  one,  and 
easily  understood.  He  is  one  who  makes  it  his  constant  rule 
to  follow  the  road  of  duty,  according  as  the  word  of  God,  and 
the  voice  of  his  conscience,  point  it  out  to  him  He  is  not 
guided  merely  by  atfections,  which  may  sometimes  give  the 
colour  of  virtue  to  a  loose  and  unstable  character. 

2  The  upright  man  is  guided  by  a  fixed  principle  of  mind, 
which  determines  him  to  esteem  nothing  but  what  is  honoura- 
ble ;  and  to  abhor  whatever  is  base  or  unworthy,  in  moral  con 
duct.  Hence  we  find  him  ever  the  same ;  at  all  times,  the  trusty 
friend,  the  afl'ectionate  relation,  the  conscientious  man  of  bu- 
siness, the  pious  worshipper,  the  public  spirited  citizen. 

3  He  assumes  no  borrowed  appearance.  He  seeks  no 
mask  to  cover  him :  for  he  acts  no  studied  part ;  but  he  is  in- 
deed what  he  appears  to  be,  full  of  truth,  candoKr  and  hu- 
manity. In  ail  his  pursuits,  he  knows  no  path  but  the  fair 
and  direct  one ;  and  would  much  rather  fail  of  success,  than 
attain  it  by  reproachful  means. 

4  He  never  shows  us  a  smiling  countenance,  while  he  me- 
ditates evil  against  u»  in  his  heart.  He  never  praises  us 
among  our  friends  ;  and  then  joins  in  traducing  us  among  our 
enemies.  We  shall  never  find  one  part  of  his  character  at 
variance  with  another.  In  his  manners,  he  is  simple  and  unaf- 
fected ;  in  all  his  proceedings,  open  and  consistent. — llair. 

SECTION  XIV. 

Gentleness. 

I  BEGIN  with  distinguishing  true  gentleness  from  passive 
tameness  of  spirit,  and  from  unlimited  compliance  with  the 
manners  of  others.  That  passive  tameness,  which  submits, 
without  opposition,  to  every  encroachment  of  the  violent  and 
assun»ing,  forms  no  part  of  christian  duty;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, 13  destructive  of  general  happiness  and  order.  That 
unlimited  complaisance,  which  on  every  occasion,  falls  in  with 
'  the  opinions  and  manners  of  others,  is  so  far  from  being  a 
virtue,  that  it  is  itself  a  vice,  and  the  parent  of  many  vices. 


n 


90 


Tin:  KNGLisrr  ucaue;:.       Paut  i. 


2  It  overthrows  nil  stondmrss  of  priiici|»ie  ;  aiid  producer 
that  sinful  confomiity  witli  the  world,  wliich  tr.lnts  tlie  >vhoj«; 
character.  In  the  present  corruj>tf(l  slnlc  oi"  liumrui  inaiuiers, 
always  to  assent,  ojkI  to  comply,  is  llie  very  worst  niuxlni  wo 
can  adopt.  It  is  lnipos>i!>le  lo  support  (In;  purity  luid  iliy;- 
nity  of  rhnstian  niorfJs,  \Titlioiit  opposing  tiie  world  oa  vju'i- 
ous  occasions,  even  thnut^li  we  sliould  st.iiid  aK)i4e. 

3  That  i^entleness  thei'efore  which  h^ioiii;;;  to  virtue,  is  to 
be  carefully  distin^ulslied  Iron;  tlie  mean  spirit  of  cowards,  and 
the  fawning  assent  of  s}  cophants.  It  rer.ounces  no  just  right 
from  fear.  It  gives  up  no  impoiiant  tnitli  from  Hattery.  It 
is  indeed  not  onlv  consistent  with  a  ♦trni  mind, but  it necesrtarlly 
requires  a  manly  spirit,  and  a  i'm^'  piinc'ple,  in  or<ier  to  give 
it  any  real  value.  Upon  this  solid  LTound  only,  Uie  polish  ol 
gentleness  can  with  advantage  I'e  suprrindur^d. 

4  It  staiuis  opposed,  not  to  the  niosld<'1erniined  regard  for 
virtue  and  truth,  hut  to  harshness  and  scv(»nty,  to  pride  ami 
arrogance,  to  violence  iind  oppression.  It  is  properly,  tJiut 
pari  of  thegveat  virtue  of  charity,  which  makes  us  unwilling 
to  give  pain  to  any  of  our  brethren,  rompassion  prompts  u/ 
to  relieve  ttieir  wajits.  Foiheai-ance  prevents  us  from  retalia- 
ting their  injuries.  Meekness  restrahis  our  angry  passioirs ; 
candour,  6ur  severe  judgments. 

5  Gentleness  connects  whatever  is  oHensive  in  our  man-, 
ners;  and  by  a  constant  train  of  }iuman(>  attentions,  studies  to 
alleviate  the  burden  of  common  misery'.  Its  office,  tlierefore, 
is  extensive.  It  is  not,  like  some  other  virtues,  called  forth 
only  on  peculiar  emergencies  ;  hut  it  !s  continually  in  action, 
when  we  are  engaged  in  intercourse  \>  ith  men.  It  ought  to 
form  our  address,  to  regidate  our  speech,  and  to  diffuse  itself 
over  our  whole  behaviour. 

6  We  must  not^  however,  confound  this  gentle  "  wisdom 
*  which  is  from  above,"  wikh  that  artificial  courtesy, that  studied 

smooUmess  ofmannei's,  wnich  is  learned  in  tJie  school  of  the 
world.  Such  accomplishments,  the  most  frivolous  and  empty 
may  possess.  Too  often  they  are  employed  by  lae  artful,  as 
a  snare  ;  too  often  affected  by  the  hard  and  unfeeling,  as  a 
cover  to  the^br  ieneas  of  their  miiui«  We  caitTTot,  at  the  same 
time,  avoid  observing  the  homr  which, 'even  in  sucu  m- 
stances,  the  world  is  constraine*,  lo  p>y  to  virtue. 

7  In  order  to  ret-der  society  p;;reeablp,  it  is  found  necessary, 
to  assume  somewhat,  that  may  at  lev.st  carry  its  aj)pearajiCe. 
Virtue  is  the  universal  chann.     Evtn  its  shadow  is  courted, 
when  the  substance  is  wanting.     The  imitation  of  its  form 


Chap.  V.         DESCUIPTIVE  PIEOKS. 


01 


hafl  been  reduced  iuto  an  art ;  and  in  the  commerce  of  life, 
the  first  study  of  ull  who  would  either  sjain  the  esteem,  or 
win  the  hearts  of  others,  is  to  h»nrn  the  s|)rech,  and  to  adopt 
the  manners,  of  candour,  4fentleness,  and  iuimanity. 

8  But  that  pentleneSH  nhich  is  the  ciinrarteristic  of  a  pood 
man,  has,  like  every  other  virtue,  its  seat  in  the  lieart  ;  and, 
let  me  «(U1,  nothini?  except  whM  flows  from  the  heart,  caR 
render  even  external  manner  ly  pleasing.  For  no  assumed 
behaviour  can  at  all  times  1  the  real  character.  In  that 
unaffected  civility  which  sprln^^g  from  a  ijenlle  mind,  there  is 
a  charm  infinitely  more  powerful,  than  in  all  the  studied  man- 
ners of  the  most  finished  courtier. 

9  True  gentleness  is  r>ur.ded  on  a  sense  of  what  we  owe 
to  HIM  who  made  us,  and  to  the  common  natni#  of  which  we 
all  share.  It  arises  from  reflections  on  our  own  tailings  and 
wants;  and  from  just  views  of  the  condition,  and  the  duty  of 
man.  It  is  native  feelinjj,  heiglitened  and  improved  by  prin- 
ciple. It  is  the  heart  which  easily  relents;  which  fcel'=5  fbr 
every  thing  that  is  human;  and  is  backward  and  slow  to  inflict 
the  least  wound, 

10  It  is  affable  in  its  dress,  and  mild  in  ifs  demeanour;  ever 
ready  to  oblige,  and  willing  to  be  obliged  by  othersfg  breath- 
ing habitual  kindness  towards  friends,  courte^-  to  strangers, 
long-suflTerinff  to  enemies.  It  exercises  authority  with  mode- 
ration ;  adminislei's  reproof  with  tendernejs  ;  confers  favours 
with  ease  and  moflesty.  It  is  unassuming  in  opinion,  and 
temp«"ate  in  zeal.  It  contends  not  eagerly  about  trifles;  slow 
to  contradict,  and  still  slower  to  blame  ;  but  prompt  to  allay 
dissention,  and  restore  peace, 

11  It  neither  intermo<l(lles  unnecessarily  with  the  affairs, 
nor  pries  inquisitively  into  the  secrets  of  othei's.  It  delights 
above  all  things  to  alleviate  distress  ;  and,  if  it  cannot  dry  up,  '^ 
the  falling  tear,  to  soothe  at  least  tne  grieving  heart.  Where 
it  has  not  the  power  of  being  useful,  it  is  never  burdensome. 
It  seeks  I')  please,  rather  than  to  shme  and  dazzle  ;  a!\d  con- 
ceals with  cure  th  «t  superiority,  eiilier  of*  talents  or  of  rank, 
which  is  oppressive  to  those  who  are  bericath  it. 

12  In  a  word,  it  is  that  spirit,  and  that  tenor  of  manners, 
which  the  gospel  of  (/hri'^t  enjoins,  wlieii  it  connnnnds  us,  ''  to 
bear  one  another's  burdens  ;  to  rejoice  with  those  who  re- 
joice, ai'd  to  weep  witii  those  w.'io  neep  ;  to  piease  e"e«^'v  one 
his  i'eip;hbour  for  his  <^ood  ;  to  be  kind  and  ter:der-he?>iled  ; 
to  be  pitiful  and  Cfsuiteous;  to  support  tlie  weak,  and  to  be 
patient  towarfl  all  men."  blaiii 

■.■■'v.,-  *,■>. 


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Hiotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4503 


Ld> 


vV 


►^ 


READER.        Part  I, 


^  CHAPTER  VI. 

'  "  PATHETIC  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

Trial  and  execution  of  the  Earl  af  Strafford,  who  fell  a 
sacrifice  to  the  violence  of  the  times jin  the  reign  0/ Charles 
the  First, 

THE  earl  of  Strafford  defended  himself  against  the  accu- 
sations of  the  house  of  Commons,  with  all  th«  presence  of 
mind,  judgment,  and  sagacity,  that  could  be  expected  from 
innocence  and  ability.  His  children  were  placed  beside  him, 
as  he  was  thus  defending  his  life,  and  the  cause  of  bis  royal 
master.  Afler  he  had,  in  a  long  and  eloquent  speech,  de- 
livered without  premeditation,  confuted  all  the  accusations  of 
nis  enemies,  he  thus  drew  to  a  conclusion. 

2  "  But,  my  lords,  I  have  troubled  you  too  long :  longer 
than  I  should  have  done,  but  for  the  sal^e  of  these  dear 
pledges  which  a  saint  in  heaven  has  left  me."  Upon  this  he 
paused ;  dropped  a  tear ;  looked  upon  his  children,  and  pro- 
ceeded.— "What  I  forfeit  for  myself  is  a  trifle ;  that  my  indis- 
cretions should  reach  my  posterity,  wounds  me  to  the  heart. 

3  Pardon  my  infirmity. — Something  I  should  have  added, 
but  I  am  not  able ;  and  therefore  I  let  it  pass.  And  now, 
my  lords,  for  myself.  I  have  long  been  taught,  that  the 
affliciioris  of  this  life  are  overpaid  by  that  eternal  weight  of 
glory,  which  awaits  the  innocent.  And  so,  my  lords>  even 
so,  with  the  utmost  tranquillity,  I  submit  myself  to  your 
judgment,  whether  that  judgment  be  life  or  death :  not  my 
will,  but  thine,  O  God,  be  done !" 

4  His  eloquence  and  innocence  induced  those  judges  to 
pity  who  were  the  most  zealous  to  condemin  him.  The 
king  himself  went  to  the  house  of  lords,  and  spoke  for  some 
time  in  his  defence ;  but  the  spirit  of  vengeance,  which  had 
been  chained  for  eleven  years,  was  now  roused ;  and  nothing 
but  his  blood  could  give  the  people  satisfaction.  He  was 
condemned  by  both  houses  of  parliament ;  and  nothing  re- 
mained but  for  the  king  to  give  his  consent  to  the  bill  of  at- 
tainder. 

5  But  in  the  present  commotions,  the  consent  of  the  king 
would  very  easily  be  dispensed  with;  and  imminent  danger 
might  attend  his  refusal.  Charles,  however,  who  loved 
Strafford  tenderly,  hesitated,  and  seemed  reluctant ;  trying 


Chap.  VI. 


PATHETIC  PIECES. 


93 


eveiy  expedient  to  put  off  so  dreadful  an  office,  as  that  of 
signing  the  warrant  for  his  execution.  While  he  continued 
In  this  agination  of  mind,  and  state  of  suspense,  his  doubts 
tvere  at  last  silenced  by  an  act  of  great  magnanimity  in  tlie 
condemned  lord. 

6  He  received  a  letter  from  that  unfortunate  nobleman, 
desiring  that  his  life  might  be  made  a  sacrilice  to  obtain  recon- 
ciliation between  the  king  and  the  people  ;  adding,  that  he 
was  prepared  to  die ;  and  that  to  a  willing  mind,  there  could 
be  no  injury.  This  instance  of  noble  generosity  was  but 
ill  repaid  by  his  master,  who  complied  with  his  request.  He 
consented  to  sign  the  fatal  bill  by  commission ;  and  Strafford 
was  beheaded  on  Tower-hill ;  behaving  with  all  that  com- 
posed dignity  of  resolution,  which  was  expected  from  his 
:^haracter.  goldsmith. 

'    SECTION  II. 

Jin  eminent  insfance  of  true  Fortitude.  ^ 

ALL  who  have  been  distinguished  as  servants  of  God,  or 
benefactors  of  men ;  all  who,  in  perilous  situations,  have 
acted  their  part  with  such  honour  as  to  render  their  names  il- 
lustrious through  succeeding  ages,  have  been  eminent  for  for- 
titude of  mind.  Of  this  we  have  one  conspicuous  ex{>mple 
m  the  apostle  Paul,  whom  it  will  be  instructive  for  us  to  view 
m  a  remarkable  occurrence  of  his  life. 

2  Afler  having  long  acted  as  the  apostle  of  the  Gentiles, 
his  mission  called  him  to  go  to  Jenisalem,  where  he  knew 
that  he  was  to  encounter  the  utmost  violence  of  his  enemies. 
Just  before  he  set  sail,  he  called  together  the  elders  of  his 
favourite  church  at  Ephesuf ;  and,  in  a  pathetic  speech,  which 
joes  great  honour  to  his  character,  gave  them  his  last  fare- 
tvell.  Deeply  affected  by  their  knowledge  of  the  certain 
dangers  tv>  which  he  was  exposing  himself,  all  the  assembly 
were  fitted  with  distress,  and  melted  into  tears. 

3  The  circumstances  were  such,  as  might  have  conveyed 
dejection  even  into  a  resolute  mind ;  and  would  have  totally 
overwhelmed  the  feeble.  "  Thej  all  wept  sore,  and  fell  on 
Paul's  neck,  and  kissed  him ;  sorrowing  most  of  all  for  the 
words  which  he  spoke,  that  they  should  see  his  face  no 
more."  What  were  then  the  sentiments,  what  was  the  lan- 
guage, of  this  great  and  good  man?  Hear  the  words  which 
spoke  his  firm  and  undaunted  mind. 

4  *<  Behold,  I  go  bound  in  the  spirit,  to  Jerusalem,  not 
knowing  the  things  tliat  shall  befall  me  there ;  save  that  the 


»4 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


pAttT   f. 


Holy  Spirit  witnesseth  in  every  city,  saying,  that  bonds  and 
afflictions  abide  me.  But  none  of  these  tliin<^  move  Die  ; 
neither  count  I  my  life  dear  to  myself,  so  that  I  mi^ht  finish 
my  course  with  joy,  and  the  ministry  which  I  hnve  received 
of  the  Lord  JesuS,  to  testify  the  goppel  of  the  grace  of  God.'* 
/  6  There  was  iitt(*red  the  Toice,  there  breathed  the  spirit, 
of  a  brave  and  virtuous  man.  Such  a  man  knows  not  what 
It  is  to  shrink  from  danger,  wlien  conscience  points  out  his 
path.  In  that  path  he  is  determined  to  walk,  let  the  conse- 
quences be  what  they  may.  This  was  the  magnanimous  be- 
haviour of  that  great  apostle,  when  he  had  persecution  and 
distress  full  in  view. 

6  Attend  now  to  the  sentiments  of  the  same  excellent  man, 
when  the  time  of  his  last  suffering  approached ;  and  remark 
the  majesty,  and  the  ease,  with  which  he  looked  on  death. 
"  I  am  now  ready  to  be  otTered,  and  the  time  of  my  departure 
is  at  hand.  I  have  fought  the  good  fight.  I  have  finished 
my  course.  I  have  kept  the  faith.  Henceforth  there  is 
laid  up  for  me  a  crown  of  righteousness." 

7  How  many  years  of  life  does  such  a  dying  moment  over- 
balance !  Who  would  not  choose,  in  this  manner,  to  go  oflf 
the  stage,  with  such  a  song  of  triumph  in  his  mouth,  rather 
than  prolong  his  existence  through  a  wretched  old  age,  stain^ 
ed  with  sin  and  shame  1  blair 

SECTION  III. 

The  scood  Man^s  comfort  in  *iijjliction. 

THE  religion  of  Christ  not  only  arms  us  with  fortitude 
against  the  approach  of  evil;  but,  supposing  evils  to  fall  upon 
us  with  their  heaviest  pressure,  it  lightens  the  load,  by  many 
consolations  to  which  others  are  strangers.  Wiiile  bad  men 
trace,  in  the  calamities  with  which  they  are  visited,  the  hand 
of  an  offended  Sovereign,  Christians  are  taught  to  view  them 
as  the  well-intended  chastisements  of  a  merciful  Fathei. 

2  They  hear  amidst  them,  that  still  voice  which  a  good 
conscience  brings  to  their  ear :  "  Fear  not,  for  I  am  with 
thee;  be  not  dismayed,  for  I  am  thy  God."  They  apply  to 
themselves  the  comfortable  promises  with  which  the  gospel 
Abounds.  They  discover  in  these  the  happy  issue  decreed 
to  their  troubles ;  and  wait  with  patience  till  Providence  shall 
have  accomplished  its  great  and  good  designs. 

J3  In  the  mean  time,  devotion  opens  to  them  its  blessed 
fld  holy  sanctuary ;  that  sanctuary  in  which  the  wounded 
§%xX  is  healed^  and  the    ^eary  uilud  is  at  rest,  where  thf 


gay; 


Chap.  VI. 


PATHETIC  PIECES. 


%& 


cares  of  the  world  are  forgotten,  where  its  tumults  are  hush- 
ed, and  its  miseries  disappear;  where  greater  objects  open 
to  our  view  than  any  which  the  world  presents ;  where  a 
more  serene  sky  shines,  and  a  sweeter  and  calmer  light  beams 
on  the  afflicted  heart. 

4  In  those  moments  of  devotion,  a  pious  man,  pouring  out 
his  wants  and  sorrows  to  an  Almighty  Supporter,  feels  that 
he  is  not  left  solitary  and  forsaken  in  a  vale  of  wo.  God 
is  with  him  ;  Christ  and  the  Holy  Spirit  are  with  him  and 
though  he  should  be  bereaved  of  every  friend  on  earth,  he 
can  look  in  heaven  to  a  Friend  that  will  never  desert  him.    - 

CLAIR. 

SECTION  IT. 

The  close  of  Life, 
WHEN  we  contemplate  the  close  of  life;  the  termination 
of  man's  designs  and  hopes  ;  the  silence  that  now  reigns 
among  those  v\'ho,  a  little  while  ago,  were  so  busy,  or  so 
gay;  who  can  avoid  being  touched  with  sensations  at  once 
awful  and  tender  ?  What  heart  but  then  v»'arms  with  the  glow 
of  humanity  ?  In  whose  eye  does  not  the  tear  gather,  on  re- 
volving the  fate  of  passing  and  shoit-lived  man  ? 

2  Behold  the  poor  man,  who  biys  down  at  last  the  burden 
of  his  wearisome  life.  No  more  shall  he  jjiroan  under  the 
load  of  poverty  and  toil.  No  more  shall  he  hear  the  insolent 
calls  of  the  master,  from  whom  he  received  his  scanty  wages. 
No  more  shall  he  be  raised  from  needful  slumber  on  his  bed 
of  straw,  nor  be  hurried  away  from  his  homely  meal,  to  un- 
dergo the  repeated  labours  of  the  day. 

3  While  his  humble  grave  is  preparing,  and  a  few  poor  and 
decayed  neighbours  are  carrying  him  thither,  it  is  good  for 
us  to  think,  that  this  man  too  was  our  brother  ;.  that  for  him 
the  aged  and  destitute  wife,  and  the  needy  children,  now 
weep ;  that,  neglected  as  he  was  by  the  world,  he  possessed, 
perhaps,  both  a  sound  understanding,  and  a  worthy  heart ; 
and  is  now  carried  by  angels,  to  rest  in  Abraham's  bosom. 

4  At  no  great  distance  from  him,  the  gi'ave  fe  opened  to 
receive  the  rich  and  proud  man.  For,  as  it  is  said  with  em- 
phasis in  the  parable,  *'  the  rich  man  also  died,  and  uas  bu- 
ried." He  also  died.  His  riches  prevented  not  his  sharing 
the  same  fate  with  the  poor  man  ;  perhaps,  through  luxury, 
they  accelerated  his  doom.  Then,  indeed,  "  the  moui'ners 
go  about  the  streets ;"  and  while,  in  all  the  pomp  and  mag- 
nificence  of  wo,  his  funeral  is  preparing,  his  heirs,  impatient 
to  examine  his  will,  are  looking  on  one  another  with  jealous 


f 


96 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


eyes,  and  already  beginning  to  dispute  about  the  division  of 
his  substance. 

6  One  day,  we  see  carried  along,  the  coffin  of  the  smiling 
infant ;  the  flower  just  nipped  as  it  began  to  blossom  in  the 
parent's  view  ;  and  the  next  day,  we  behold  the  youn^^  man, 
or  young  woman,  of  blooming  form  and  promising  hopes, 
laid  in  an  untimely  grave.  While  the  funeral  is  attended  by 
a  numerous  unconcerned  company,  who  are  discoursing  to 
one  another  about  the  news  of  the  day,  or  the  ordinary  aflairs 
of  life,  let  our  thoughts  rather  follow  to  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing, and  represent  to  themselves  what  is  passing  there. 

6.  There  we  should  see  a  disconsolate  family,  sitting  in 
silent  grief,  thinking  of  the  sad  breach  that  is  made  in  their  lit- 
tle society ;  and,  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  looking  to  the  cham- 
ber that  is  now  left  vacant,  and  to  every  memorial  that  pre- 
sents itself  of  their  departed  friend.  By  such  attention  to 
the  woes  of  others,  the  selfish  hardness  of  onr  hearts  will  be 
gradually  softened,  and  melted  down  into  humanity. 

7  Another  day,  we  follow  to  the  grave,  one  wlio,  in  old 
age,  and  after  a  long  career  of  life,  has  in  full  maturity  sunk 
at  last  into  rest.  As  we  are  going  along  to  the  mansion  of  the 
dead,  it  is  natural  for  us  to  think,  and  to  discourse,  of  all  the 
changes  which  such  a  person  has  seen  during  the  course  of 
his  life.  He  has  passed,  it  is  likely,  through  varieties  of 
fortune.  He  has  experienced  prosperity,  and  adversity. 
He  has  seen  families  and  kindreds  rise  and  fall.  He  has 
seen  peace  and  war  succeeding  in  their  turns  ;  the  face  of 
his  country  undergoing  many  alterations ;  and  the  very 
city  in  which  he  dwelt,  rising,  in  a  manner,  new  around 
him. 

8  After  all  he  has  beheld,  his  eyes  are  now  closed  for 
ever.  He  was  becoming  a  stranger  in  the  midst  of  a  new 
succession  of  men.  A  race  who  knew  him  not,  had  arisen 
to  fill  the  earth. — Thus  passes  the  world  away.  Throughout 
all  ranks  and  conditions,  "  one  generation  passeth,  and 
another  generation  cometh  ;''  and  this  great  inn  is  by  turns 
evacuated  and  replenished,  by  troops  of  succeeding  pilgrims. 

9  O  vain  and  inconstant  world !  O  fleeting  and  transient 
life.  When  will  the  sons  of  men  learn  to  think  of  thee  as 
they  ought?  When  will  they  learn  huniaijiiy  from  the  afflic- 
tions of  their  brethren;  or  moderation  and  wisdom,  from 
the  sense  of  their  own  fugitive  state  1  blair. 


i  * 


Ghaf.  VI. 


PATHETIC  PIECES. 


97 


'      SECTION  V. 

Exalted  Society ,  and  the  reneival  of  virttioua  ConnexioiMj  two 

sources  of  future  Felicity 

BESIDES  the  felicity  whicii  springs  from  perfect  love, 
there  are  two  circumstances  which  particularly  enhance  the 
blessedness  of  that  "  multitude  who  stand  before  the  throne;" 
these  are,  access  to  the  most  exalted  society,  and  renewal 
of  the  most  tender  connexions.  The  former  is  pointed  out 
in  the  Scripture,  by  "joining  the  innumerable  company  of 
angels,  and  the  general  assembly  and  church  of  the  first- 
born; by  sitting  down  with  Abraham,  and  Isaac,  and  Jacob, 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;"  a  promise  which  opens  the 
sublimest  prospects  to  the  human  mind. 

2  It  allows  good  men  to  entertain  the  hope,  that,  separated 
from  all  the  dregs  of  the  human  mass,  from  that  mixed  and 
polluted  crowd  in  the  midst  of  which  they  now  dwell,  they 
shall  be  permitted  to  mingle  with  prophets,  patriarchs,  and 
apostles,  with  all  those  great  and  illustrious  spirits,  who  have 
shone  in  former  ages  as  the  servants  of  God,  or  the  benefac- 
tors of  men ;  whose  deeds  we  are  accustomed  to  celebrate  ; 
whose  steps  we  now  fo|lovv  at  a  distance;  and  whose  names 
we  pronounce  with  veneration. 

3  United  to  this  high  assembly,  the  blessed,  at  the  same 
time,  renew  those  ancient  connexions  w  ith  virtuous  friends, 
which  had  been  dissolved  by  death.  The  prospect  of  this 
awakens  in  the  heart  the  most  pleasing  and  tender  sentiment 
that  perhaps  can  fill  it,  in  this  mortal  state.  For  of  all  the 
sorrows  which  we  are  here  doomed  to  endure,  none  is  so 
bitter  as  that  occasioned  by  the  fatal  stroke  which  separates 
ns,  in  appearance  for  ever,  from  those  to  which  either  nature 
or  friendship  had  intimately  joined  our  heai^. 

4  Memory,  from  time  to  time,  renews  the  anguish ;  opens 
the  wound  which  seemed  once  to  have  been  closed ;  and  by 
recalling  joys  that  are  past  and  gone,  touches  every  spring  of 
painful  sensibility.  In  these  agonizing  moments,  how  relieving 
the  thought,  that  the  separation  is  only  temporary,  not  eter- 
nal; that  there  is  a  time  to  come  of  re-union  with  those  with 
whom  our  happiest  days  were  spent ;  whose  joys  and  sor- 
rows once  were  ours ;  whose  piety  and  virtue  cheered  and 
encouraged  us;  and  from  whom,  afler  we  shall  have  landed 
on  the  peaceful  shore  where  they  dwell,  no  revolutions  of 
nature  -shall  ever  be  able  to  part  us  more !  Such  is  the  society 
of  the  blessed  above.  Of  such  are  the  multitude  composed 
who  ** stand  before  the  throne."  blair. 


(.■■:■  .\ 


'■>   < 


fr 


ti":'^:^ 


^y  ■; 


98 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Pari  f. 


SECTION  VI. 

The  clemenctj  and  amiable  character  of  Ike  Painarc/t  Joseph. 

NO  human  character  exhihlteJ  in  the  records  of  Scripture, 
is  more  remarkable  and  instructive  than  that  of  the  patriarch 
Joseph.  He  is  one  whom  we  hcljold  tried  in  all  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  fortune  ;  from  the  condition  of  a  slave,  risinu^  to  ha 
ruler  of  the  laud  of  1 4','yj)t ;  and  in  every  station  acquiring,  hy 
his  virtue  and  wisdom,  i'avour  with  God  and  man.  VVhcn 
overseer  of  Potiphar's  house,  his  fidelity  was  proved  by  strong 
temptations,  which  he  honotn^ahly  resisted. 
'  2  When  thrown  into  prison  by  the  artifices  of  a  false  wo- 
man, his  integrity  and  prudence  soon  rendered  liim  conspiai- 
ous,  even  in  that  dark  mansion.  When  called  into  the  p  e- 
sence  of  Pharaoh,  the  wise-and  extensive  plan  which  he  form. 
ed  for  saving  the  kingdom  from  the  miseries  of  impending  fa- 
mine, justly  raised  him  to  a  high  station,  wherein  his  abili- 
ties were  eminently  displayed  in  the  public  service. 

3  But  in  his  wiiole  history,  there  is  no  circumstance  so 
striking  and  interesting,  as  his  behaviour  to  his  brethren  who 
had  sold  him  into  slavery.  The  moment  in  which  he  made 
himself  known  to  them,  was  the  most  critical  one  of  his  Ufe, 
and  the  most  decisive  of  his  character.  It  is  such  as  rarely 
occurs  in  the  course  of  human  events;  and  is  calculated  to 
draw  the  highest  attention  of  all  who  are  endowed  with  any 
degree  of  sensibility  of  heart. 

4  From  the  whole  tenor  of  the  narration,  it  appears,  that 
though  Joseph,  upon  the  arrival  of  his  brethren  in  Egypt,  made 
himself  strange  to  them,  yet,  from  the  beginning,  he  intended 
to  discover  himself;  and  studied  so  to  conduct  the  discovery, 
as  might  render  the  surprise  of  joy  complete.  For  this  end, 
by  affected  severity,  he  took  measures  for  bringing  down  into 
Egypt  all  his  father's  children. 

6  They  were  now  arrived  there ;  and  Benjamin  among 
the  rest,  who  was  his  younger  brother  by  the  same  mother 
and  was  particularly  beloved  by  Joseph.  Him  he  threatened 
to  detain;  and  seemed  willing  to  allow  the  rest  to  depart.  Tl  is 
incident  renewed  their  distress.  They  all  knew  their  father's 
extreme  anxiety  about  the  safety  of  Benjamin,  and  with  what 
difficulty  he  had  yielded  to  his  undertaking  this  journey. 

6  Should  he  be  prevented  from  returning,  they  dreaded 
that  grief  would  overpower  the  old  man's  spirits,  and  prove 
fatal  to  his  life.  Judah,  therefore,  who  had  particularly  urged 
the  necessity  of  Benjamin's  accompanying  his  brothers,  and  had 
solemnly  pledged  himself  to  their  father  for  his  safe  return 


Chap.  VI. 


PATHETIC  PIECES. 


99 


craved,  upon  this  occasion,  an  audience  of  the  governor;  and 
gave  him  a  full  account  of  the  circumstj     %      Jacob's  family. 

pathetic  than  this 


7  Nothing  can  be  more 


interesting^  a 


discourse  of  .Judah.  Little  knowing  to  whom  he  spoke,  he 
paints  in  all  the  colours  of  simple  and  natural  eloquence,  the 
distressed  situation  of  the  aged  patriarch,  hastening  to  the 
close  of  life  ;  long  afflicted  for  the  loss  of  a  favourit*  sou, 
whom  he  supposed  to  have  been  torn  in  pieces  by  a  beast  of 
prey  ;  labouring  now  under  anxious  concern  about  his  young- 
est son,  the  child  of  his  old  age,  who  aloue  was  letl  aiive  of 
his  mother,  and  whom  nothing  but  the  calamities  of  severe 
famine  could  have  moved  a  tender  father  to  send  from  home, 
and  expose  to  the  dangei's  of  a  foreign  land. 

8  "  If  we  bring  him  not  back  with  us,  we  shall  bring  down 
the  gray  hairs  of  thy  servant,  our  father,  witii  sorrow  to  the 
grave.  I  pray  thee  therefore  let  thy  servant  abide,  instead  of 
the  young  man,  a  bondman  to  our  lord.  For  how  shall  I  go 
up  to  my  father,  and  Benjamin  not  with  me?  lest  !  •  «  the 
evil  that  shall  come  on  my  father." 

9  Upon  this  relation,  Joseph  could  no  longer  restrain  him- 
self. T  he  tender  ideas  of  hi?  father,  and  his  father's  house,  of 
his  ancient  home,  his  country,  i  nd  his  kindred  of  the  distress 
of  his  family,  and  his  own  exaltation,  all  rushed  too  strongly 
upon  his  mind  to  bear  any  farther  concealment.  "  He  cried, 
Cause  every  man  to  go  out  from  me  ;  and  he  wept  aJoud." 

10  The  tears  which  he  shed  were  not  the  tears  of  grief. 
They  were  the  burst  of  affection.  They  were  the  effusions 
of  a  heart  oveflowing  with  all  the  tender  sensibilities  of  na- 
ture. Formerly  he  had  been  moved  in  the  same  manner, 
when  he  first  saw  his  brethren  before  him.  "  His  bowels 
yearned  upon  them ;  he  souglit  for  a  place  where  to  weep. 
He  went  into  his  chamber ;  and  then  washed  his  face  and  re- 
turned to  them." 

11  At  that  period,  his  generous  plans  were  not  completed. 
But  now,  when  there  was  no  farther  occasion  for  constraining 
himself,  he  gave  free  vent  to  the  strong  emotions  of  his  heart. 
The  first  minister  to  the  king  of  Egypt  was  not  ashamed  to 
show,  that  he  felt  as  a  man  and  a  brother.  **  He  wept  aloud ; 
and  the  Egyptians,  and  the  house  of  Pharaoh  heard  him." 

12  The  first  words  which  his  swelling  heart  allowed  him  to 
pronounce,  are  the  most  suitable  to  such  an  affecting  situation 
that  were  ever  uttered ; — "I  am  Joseph ;  doth  my  father  yrt 
live  ?" — What  could  he,  what  ought  he,  in  that  impassioaed 
moment,  to  have  said  more  ?  This  is  the  voice  of  nature  her- 
self, speaking  her  own  language ;  and  it  penetrates  the  heart : 


'With' 


C 


N*;^:-^- 


ii 


h':<t:.\  *,!; 


100 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


^^' 


no  pomp  of  expression;  no  parade  of  kindness;  but  strong 
affection  hastening  to  utter  vvliat  it  strongly  felt. 

13  "  His  brethren  could  not  answer  him  ;  for  they  were 
troubled  at  his  presence."  Their  silence  is  as  expressive  ot 
those  emotions  of  repentance  and  shame,  which,  on  this  am;i- 
zing  discovery,  filled  their  breasts,  and  stopped  their  utterance, 
as  the  few  words  which  Joseph  speaks,  are  expressive  of  the 
generous  agitations  which  strugifled  for  vent  within  him. 

14  No  painter  could  seize  a  more  striking  moment  for  dis- 
playing the  characteristical  features  of  the  human  heart,  than 
what  is  here  presented.  Never  was  there  a  situation  of  more 
tender  and  virtuous  joy,  on  the  one  hand  ;  nor,  on  the  other, 
of  more  overwhelming  confusion  and  conscious  guilt.  In  the 
simple  narration  of  the  sacred  historian,  it  is  set  before  us 
with  greater  energy  and  higher  effect,  than  if  it  had  been 
wrought  up  with  all  the  colouring  of  the  most  admired  mo- 
dern eloquence.  blair. 

SECTION  VII. 

ALTAMONT. 

The  follmoing  account  of  an  affecting^  mournful  ex^it,  is  relal- 
td  by  Dr,  Youngs  who  was  present  at  the  melancholy  scene* 

THE  sad  evening  before  the  death  of  the  noble  youth, 
whose  last  hours  suggested  the  most  solemn  and  awful  re- 
flections, I  was  with  him.  No  one  was  present,  but  his  phy« 
sician,  and  an  intimate  whom  he  loved,  and  whom  he  had 
ruined.  At  my  coming  in,  he  said,  *^  You  and  the  physician, 
are  come  too  late.  I  have  neither  life  nor  hope.  You  both 
aim  at  miracles.     You  would  raise  the  dead  !" 

2  Heaven,  I  said,  was  merciful — "  Or,"  exclaimed  he, — 
'*  I  could  not  have  been  thus  guilty.  What  has  it  not  done  to 
bless  and  to  save  me ! — ^I  have  been  too  strong  for  Omnipo- 
tence !  I  have  plucked   down  ruin." T  said,  ,the  blessed 

Redeemer, — "  Hold  !  hold  !  you   wound   me  ! — That  is  the 
rock  on  which  I  split : — I  denied  his  name !" 

3  Refusing  to  hear  any  thing  from  me,  or  take  any  thing ' 
from  the  physician,  he  lay  silent,  as  far  as  sudden  darts  of 
pain  would  permit,  till  the  clock  struck :  Then  with  vehe- 
mence he  exclaimed,  <<  Oh !  time !  time !  it  is  (it  thou  shouldst 
thus  strike  thy  murderer  to  the  heart ! — Flow  art  thou  fled 
for  ever ! — A  month !  Oh,  for  a  single  week !  I  ask  not  for 
rears !  though  an  age  were  too  little  for  the  much  I  have  to  do." 

4  On  my  saying,  we  could  not  do  too  much  :  that  heaven 
was  a  blessed  place >>"  So  much  the  worse. — *Tis  lost ! 

Joflt ! — Heaven  is  to  me  the  severest  part  of  hell !"  Sooft 


PUBl-IC 


Chaf.  TI. 


PATHETIC  PIFXES. 


101 


after,  I  proposed  prayer, — "  Prny  you  that  can,  I  never  pray- 
ed. I  cAnnot  pray — nor  need  I.  la  not  heaven  on  my  side 
already  ?  It  closes  with  my  conscience.  Its  severest  8trok(r> 
but  second  my  own." 

5  Observing  t!i :>t  his  friend  was  much  touched  at  this,  even 
to  tears— (who  could  forlicar?   1  could  not) — with  a  most  ai- 
I'ectionate  look,  he  s.wd,  "  Keep  those  tears  for  thyself.     X 
have  undone  thee. — Dost  thou  weej)  for  me  ?  That  is  cruel.  * 
What  can  pain  me  more  ?-' 

6  Here   his  friend,  too  much   affected,  would  have  left 
^  him. — "  No,  stay — ^thou  still  mawst  hope  ;  therefore  hear  me. 

How  madly  have  I  talked !  How  madly  hast  thou  listened 
and  believed !  but  look  on  my  present  state,  as  a  full  answer 
to  thee,  and  to  myself.  This  body  is  all  weakness  and  pain ; 
but  my  soul,  as  if  stung  up  by  torment  to  greater  strength  and 
.<:plrit,  is  full  powerful  to  reason ;  full  mighty  to  suffer.  And 
that  which  thus  triumphs  within  the  jaws  of  immortality,  is, 
doubtless,  immortal — And,  as  for  a  Deity,  nothing  less  than 
an  Almighty  could  inflict  what  I  feel.'' 

7  I  was  about  to  congratulate  this  passive,  involuntary  con- 
fessor, on  his  asserting  the  two  prime  articles  of  his  creed, 
extorted  by  the  rack  of  nature,  when  he  thus,  very  passion- 
ately exclaimed : — "  No,  no !  let  me  speak  on.  I  have  not 
long  to  speak. — My  much  injured  friend  !  my  soul,  as  my 
body,  lies  in  ruins ;  in  scattered  fragments  of  broken  thought. 

8  Remorse  for  the  past,  throws  my  thought  on  the  future.  . 
Woi'se  dread  of  the  future,  strikes  it  back  on  the  past.  I  turn, 
and  turn,  and  find  no  ray.  Didst  thou  feel  half  the  mountain 
that  is  on  me,  thou  wouldst  struggle  with  the  martyr  for  hia 
stake  ;  and  bless  Heaven  for  the  flames! — ^that  is  not  an  ever- 
lasting flame  ;  that  is  not  an  unquenchable  fire."  . 

9  How  were  we  struck !  yet  soon  after,  still  more.  With 
what  an  eye  of  distraction,  what  a  face  of  despair,  he  cried  " 
out !  "  My  principles  have  poisoned  my  friend  ;  my  extrava- 
gance has  beggared  my  boy !  my  unkindness  has  murdered 
my  wife ! — And  is  there  another  hell  ?  Oh  !  thou  blasphem- 
ed, yet  indulgent  LORD  GOD  !  Hell  itself  is  a  refuge,  if  it 
hide  me  from  thy  frown  !" 

10  Soon  after,  his  understanding  failed.  His  terrified  ima- 
gination uttered  horrors  not  to  he  repeated,  or  ever  forgotten. 
And  ere  the  sun  (which,  I  hope,  has  se^ni  few  like  him)  arose, 

4he  gay,  young,  noble,   i age n I ous,  accomplished,  and  moot 
wretched  Altamont,  expired  ! 

11  If  this  is  a  man  of  pleasure,  what  is  a  man  of  painK 
How  quick,  how  total,  is  the  transit  of  0uch  pertongl  in  what 

12 


?;■ 


IM 


THE  ENGLISH  llEADEll. 


Part  !. 


a  (Hsmal  gloom  they  sot  for  ever !  How,  short,  alaa  !  tlje  day 
of  their  rejoicing ! — I'\)r  a  ir.onu'iit,  they  ^HiUt — thcv  <laz/,lel 
In  a  moiiieiit,  where  nro  thry  ?  Ohhvion  covers  their  memo- 
ries. Ah!  woulil  it  dii!  !  liiluiuy  siiiUelies  tlwrni  from  obU- 
vion.  In  the  K)iijj  living  sunals  of  hifamy,  their  triuuiplKs 
are  recorded. 

12  Thy  suHennc:.'?,  poor  Altnmont!  slill  hleed  in  the  hosom 
of  the  heart-stricken  friend — for  Altaniont  had  a  fri<Mid.  lie 
might  have  liad  many.  His  transient  monnn<j^  mit^ht  hav(> 
been  the  dawn  of  an  immoital  day.  His  name  mii;ht  have 
been  gloriously  enrolled  in  the  records  of  eternity.  His 
memory  might  have  left  a  sweet  fraj^ranee  hehind  it,  grateful 
to  the  surviving  friend,  salutary  to  the  sueeeedinii*  generation. 

13  With  what  capacity  was  he  endowed  !  w'(h  wliat  ad- 
vantages, for  being  greatly  good  !  But  with  *lie  talents  of  an 
angel,  a  man  may  be  a  fool.  If  he  judges  amiss  in  the  su- 
preme point,  judging  right  in  all  ejye,  hut  aggravates  his  folly; 
as  it  shows  him  wrong,  though  *  'essed  with  the  hest  capacity 
ol"  being  right.  dh.  young. 


;h\pti:k,  vh. 
section  i. 

HEMOCRITUS  AND  IIERACMTITS.*      ' 

^fie  vicet  and  follies  of  Men  should  excite  Compassir>"  rather 

than  Ridicule. 

Vemocrihfs.  I  FIND  it  impossible  to^ reconcile  myself  to 
a  melancholy  philosophy. 

Heraclitus.  And  I  am  equally  unable  to  approve  of  that 
vain  philosophy  which  teaches  men  to  despise  and  ridicule 
one  another.  To  a  wise  and  feeling  mind,  the  world  ap- 
pears in  a  wretched  and  painful  light. 

Dem,  Thou  art  too  much  affected  with  the  state  of  things  ; 
aitid  this  is  a  source  of  miserv  to  thee. 

ffer.  And  I  think  thou  art  too  little  moved  by  it.  Thy 
tnirth  and  ridicule  bespeak  the  huiibon,  >  ritlier  than  the  phi- 
losopher. Does  it  not  excite  tliy  eompassion  to  see  mankind 
go  frail,  so  blind,  so  far  departeil  from  the  rides  o)  virtue  I 

Dmn.  I  am  excited  to  laughter,  when  I  see  so  much  im- 
pertinence and  folly. 

Her,   And  yet^  after  all,  tiiey  who  are  the  objects  of  thy 

♦  Deoioeritus  and  Heracliuis  were  two  aiicin'ui  uhilusitjthers,  the  former  of  wboa 
lai/ghM,  and  the  hrner  wept,  at  tli«  «nr«ra  and  Swim  tf  mankind. 


Chap.  VII. 


DIALOaUES. 


103 


ridicule,  include,  not  only  mnnkliul  in  general,  but  the  per- 
sons with  whom  thou  livest,  ti»y  fiieii(ls,  tliy  laniHy,  nuy, 
even  tiiyaelf. 

Dern.  I  cnre  very  Utile  for  all  the  silly  persons  [  meet  with; 
yml  think  I  am  justiliulile  in  (iiveitin^nnyHeiruilh  their  folly. 

Iler.  If  they  are  weak  and  foolish,  it  m:irks  neither  wis- 
dom nor  humanity,  to  insult  rntlier  than  pity  them.  Uul 
is  it  certain,  that  thou  art  not  aa  extravugvnt  us  they  are  ? 

Vem.  I  presume  tliat  I  am  not ;  since,  in  every  point, 
my  sentiments  are  llie  very  jv^'t'iFc  of  their;!.  \ 

Iler.  There  are  follies  of  ditVtrent  kinds.  Ry  constantly 
fimusing  thyself  with  the  errors  and  misconthict  of  othei>!, 
tiiou  mayst  render  thyself  ecjually  ridicuhnis  and  culpable, 

Vem.  Thou  art  at  liherty  to  indulge  eucli  sentiments;  and 
to  weep  over  me  too,  if  thou  hr^at  any  tears  to  spare.  For 
my  part,  I  cannot  refrain  from  pleasing  myself  with  the  le- 
vities and  ill  conduct  of  the  world  about  me.  Are  not  all 
men  foolish  or  irrcji-ular  in  their  lives? 

Her.  Alas !  there  is  but  too  much  reason  to  believe  they 
are  so;  and  on  this  ground,  I  pity  and  deplore  tlieir  condi- 
tion. We  agree  in  this  poiul,  tliat  men  do  not  conduct 
themselves  according  to  reasonable  and  just  principh.'s  ;  but 
I,  who  do  not  sul^l'er  myself  to  act  as  tlu'y  do,  must  yet  re- 
gard the  dictates  of  my  understanding  and  feelings,  which 
conjpel  me  to  love  them  ;  and  that  love  fdls  me  \fith  com- 
passion for  their  mistakes  and  irrei;uhritie3.  Canst  thou 
condemn  me  for  pitying  my  own  species,  my  lurethien,  per- 
sons born  in  the  same  condition  of  life,  and  destined  to  the 
same  hopes  and  privileges?  If  thou  shouldst  enter  a  hospital, 
where  sick  and  wounded  persons  reside,  would  their  w  oundd 
and  distresses  excite  thy  mirth  ?  And  yet,  the  evils  of  the 
body  bear  no  comparison  with  those  of  the  mind.  Thou 
wouldst  certainly  blush  at  thy  barbarity,  if  thou  hadst  been 
so  unfeeling  as  to  laugh  at,  or  despise  a  poor  miserable  being 
who  had  lost  one  of  his  legs  :  and  yet  tliou  are  so  destitute 
of  humanity,  as  to  ridicule  those  who  appear  to  be  deprived 
of  the  noble  powers  of  the  understanding,  by  the  little  regard 
which  they  pay  to  its  dictates. 

Dern,  He  who  has  lost  a  leg  is  to  be  pitied,  because  the 
loss  is  not  to  be  imputed  to  himself  ;  but  he  who  rejects  the 
dictates  of  reason  and  conscience,  voluntnrily  deprives  him- 
self of  their  aid.     The  loss  originates  in  his  own  folly. 

Her.  AW  so  much  the  more  is  he  to  be  pitied  !  \  furloug 
maniac  who  should  pluck  out  Ids  own  eyes,  would  desei-ve 
more  compassion  than  an  ordinary  blind  man. 


■    I, 


;;  ''it 


i% 

f. 

''^1 

■ 

y^M 

■b 

\   ■-  '■ 

!■#;! 

;*'• 

r   !:' 

'')■■■ 
1   '■ 

I'-''' 

»> 

Viti- 

'1 

M-  ■ 

♦. 

mt 

104 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


7 


Dem,  Come,  let  us  accommodate  the  business.  There 
is  something  to  be  said  on  each  side  of  the  question.  There 
is  every  where  reason  for  laughing,  and  reason  for  weeping. 
The  world  is  ridiculous,  and  I  laugh  at  it ;  it  is  deplorable, 
and  thou  lamentest  over  it.  Every  person  views  it  in  bis 
own  way,  and  according  to  his  own  temper.  One  point  is 
unquestionable ;  that  mankind  are  preposterous :  to  think 
right,  and  to  act  well,  we  mu<?t  think  and  act  differently 
from  them.  To  submit  to  the  authority,  and  to  follow  the 
example  of  tlie  greater  part  of  men,  would  render  us  foolish 
and  miserable. 

Her.  All  this  is,  indeed,  true;  but  then  thou  hast  no  real 
love  or  feeling  for  thy  species.  The  calamities  of  mankind 
excite  thy  mirth ;  and  this  proves  tliat  thou  hast  no  regard 
for  men,  nor  any  true  respect  for  the  virtues  which  they  have 
uohappily  abandoned.  Fendon,  Archbishop  of  Cambray. 

SECTION  II. 

DIONYSIUS,   PYTHIAS,  AND  DAMON. 

Genuine  Virtue  commands  Respecty  even  from  the  Bad. 

Dionysius,  AMAZING!  What  do  I  see?  It  is  Pythias 
just  arrived. — It  is  indeed  Pythias.  I  did  not  think  it  posr 
i>ible.     He  is  come  to  die,  and  to  redeem  his  friend  ! 

Pythias.  Yes,  it  is  Pythias.     I  left  the  place  of  my  con 
dement,  with  no  other  views,  than  to  pay  to  heaven  the 
vows  I  had  made  ;  to  settle  my  family  concerns  according  to 
the  rules  of  justice ;  and  to  bid   adieu  to  my  children,  that 
I  might  die  tranquil  and  satisfied. 

Dio.  But  why  dost  thou  return?  Hast  thou  no  fear  of 
death?  Is  it  not  the  character  of  a  madman,  to  seek  it  thus 
voluntarily  ? 

Py,  I  return  to  suflTer,  though  I  have  not  deserved  death. 
£very  principle  of  honour  and  goodness  forbids  me  to  al- 
low my  friend  to  die  for  me. 

Dio.  Dost  thou  then  love  him  better  than  thyself  ? 

Py.  No  :  I  love  him  as  myself.  But  I  am  persuaded  that 
I  ought  to  suffer  death,  rather  than  my  friend  ;  since  it  was 
Pythias  whom  thou  hadst  decreed  to  die.  It  were  not  just 
that  Damon  should  suffer,  to  deliver  me  from  the  deatii  which 
was  designed  not  for  him,  but  for  me  ordy. 

Dio.  But  thou  supposest  that  it  is  as  unjust  to  inflict 
death  upon  thee,  as  upon  thy  friend. 

Py.  Very  true ;  we  are  both  perfectly  innocent }  and  it 
i0  equally  unjust  to  make  either  of  us  suffer. 


Chap.  TII. 


DIALOGUES. 


2t6 


Dio.  Why  dost  thou  then  assert,  that  it  were  injustice  to 
put  him  to  death,  instead  of  thee  ? 

Py,  It  is  uriust,  in  the  same  degree,  to  inflict  death  either 
on  Damon  or  on  myself;  but  Pythias  were  highly  culpable 
to  let  Damon  suffer  that  death  which  the  tyrant  had  prepar- 
ed for  Pythias  only.'-*; 

Dio.  Dost  thou  then  return  hither,  on  the  day  appointed, 
with  no  other  view  than  to  save  the  life  of  a  friend  by  los- 
ing thy  own  ? 

Py.  I  return  in  regard  to  thee,  to  suffer  an  act  of  injus- 
tice which  it  is  common  for  tyrants  to  inflict ;  and,  with  re- 
spect to  Damon,  to  perform  my  duty,  by  rescuing  him  from 
the  danger  he  incurred  by  his  generosity  to  me. 

Dio.  And  now,  Damon,  let  me  address  myself  to  thee. 
Didst  thou  not  really  fear  that  Pythias  would  never  returif ; 
and  that  thou  wouldst  be  put.to  death  on  his  account? 

Da.  I  was  but  too  well  assured  that  Pythias  would  punc- 
tually return ;  and  that  he  would  be  more  solicitous  to  keep 
his  promise,  than  to  preserve  his  life.  Would  to  heaven 
that  his  relations  and  friends  had  forcibly  detained  him !  He 
would  then  have  lived  for  the  comfort  and  benefit  of  good 
men  ;  and  I  should  have  the  satisfaction  of  dying  for  him  ! 

Dio.  What!  Does  life  displease  thee? 

Da.  Yes ;  it  displeases  me  when  I  see  and  feel  the  power 
of  a  tyrant. 

Dio.  It  is  well !  Thou  shalt  see  him  no  more.  I  wiQ 
order  thee  to  be  put  to  death  immediately. 

Py,  Pardon  the  feelings  of  a  man  who  sympathizes  witll 
his  dying  friend.  "But  remember  it  was  Pythias  who  was 
devoted  by  thee  to  destruction.  I  come  to  submit  to  it,  thai 
1  may  redeem  my  friend.  Do  not  refuse  me  this  consola- 
tion in  my  last  hour. 

Dio.  I  cannot  endure  men  who  despise  death,  and  8tt 
my  power  at  defiance. 

Da.  Thou  canst  not,  then,  endure  virtue. 

Dio.  No  ;  I  cannot  endure  that  proud,  disdainful  virtue, 
which  contemns  life ;  which  dreads  no  punishment ;  and 
which  is  insensible  to  the  charms  of  riches  and  pleasure. 

Da,  Thou  seest,  however,  that  it  is  a  virtue  which  is  not 
insensible  to  the  dictates  of  honour,  justice,  and  friendship. 

Dio.  Guards,  take  Pythias  to  execution.  We  shall  see 
whether  Damon  will  continue  to  despise  my  authority. 

Da.  Pythias,  by  returning  to  submit  himself  to  thy  pleft- 
i^ure,  has  merited  his  life,  and  deserved  thy  favour ;  but  I 
h»v%  excited  thy   Indignation,  by  resigning  myseU  1w  tby 


i»  I? 


11!    t'",''' 


'■h 


*1 


its 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


power,  in  order  to  save  him  ;  be  satisfied,  then,  with  thig 
saerifice,  and  put  me  to  death. 

Py.  Hold,  Dionysius  !  remember  it  was  Pythias  alone' 
who  offended  thee  ;  Damon  could  not 

Dio.  Alas!  what  do  I  see  and  hear!  where  am  I?  How 
miserable  ;  and  how  woitliy  to  be  so!  I  have  hithei'to  known 
nothiiijy^  of  true  virtue.  I  have  spent  my  lite  in  darkness 
and  error.  All  my  power  aiul  honours  are  insufficient  to 
produce  love.  I  cannot  boast  of  havinj^  acquired  a  single 
friend  in  the  course  of  a  reign  of  thirty  years.  And  yet  these 
two  persons,  in  a  private  condition,  love  one  another  tender- 
ly, unreservedly  confide  in  each  other,  are  mutually  happy, 
and  ready  to  die  for  each  other's  preservation. 

Py,  How  couldst  thou,  w^ho  hast  never  loved  any  person, 
expect  to  have  ^riends?  If  thou  hadst  loved  and  respected 
men,  thou  wouldst  have  secured  their  love  and  respect.  Thou 
hast  feared  ma  ik'id,  and  they  fear  thee;  they  detest  thee. 

Dio.  Damon,  Pythias,  condescend  to  admit  me  as  a  third 
friend,  in  a  connexion  so  perfect.  I  give  you  your  lives, 
and  I  will  load  you  with  riches. 

Da,  We  have  no  desire  to  be  enriched  by  thee ;  and,  in 
regard  to  thy  friendship,  we  cannot  accept  or  enjoy  it,  till 
thou  become  good  and  ju^t.  Without  these  qualities,  thou 
canst  be  connected  with  none  but  trembling  slaves,  and  base 
flatterers.  To  be  loved  and  esteemed  by  men  of  free  and 
generous  minds,  thou  must  be  virtuous,  affectionate,  dis- 
interested, beneficent ;  and  know  how.  to  live  in  a  sort  oi 
equality  with  those  who  share  and  deserve  thy  friendship, 

Fenelon,  Archbishop  of  Cambray, 

SECTION  HI. 

LOCKE    AND    BAYLE. 

Christianity  defended  ao;ainst  the  cavils  of  Scepticism, 

Baylc,  YES,  we  both  were  philosophers;  but  my  philo- 
sophy was  the  deepest.     You  dogmatized ;  I  doubted. 

Locke.  Do  you  make  doubting  a  proof  of  depth  in  philoso- 
phy ?  It  may  be  a  good  beginning  of  it ;  but  it  is  a  bad  end. 

Bayle.  No : — the  more  profound  our  searches  are  into 
the  nature  of  things,  the  more  uncertainty  we  shall  find ;  and 
the  most  subtle  minds,  see  objections  and  difRculties  in 
every  system,  which  are  overlooked  or  undiscovered  by  or- 
dinary understandings. 

Locke,  It  would  be  better  then  to  be  no  philosopher,  and 
to  continue  in  the  vulgar  herd  of  mankind,  that  oiu;  may 
hl^Te  the  coAveuence  of  thinking  that  one  knows  something 


Chap.  Vlf. 


DIALOGUES. 


107 


I  find  that  the  eyes  which  nature  has  given  me,  see  mauy 
things  very  clearly,  thoui^h  some  are  out  of  tlieir  reach,  or 
riiscerned  hut  dimly.  What  opinion  ought  I  to  have  of  a 
physician,  who  sliould  oHer  me  an  eye-water,  the  use  o£ 
which  would  at  first  so  sharpen  my  sight,  as  to  carry  it  far- 
ther than  ordinary  vision ;  but  wouhl  in  the  end  put  them 
out?  Your  philosophy  is  to  the  eyea  of  the  mind,  what  1  have 
supposed  the  doctor's  nostrum  to  he  to  those  of  the  body.  Ifa 
actually  brought  your  own  excellent  understanding,  which 
was  by  nature  quick-sighled,  and  rejidered  moi*e  so  by  arfc 
and  a  subtility  of  logic  peculiar  to  yourself — it  brought,  I 
say,  your  very  acute  underj^tanding  to  see  notliing  clt'arly ; 
and  enveloped  all  the  gi*eat  truths  of  reason  aiid  religion  ia 
mists  of  doubt^.. 

Bayle,  I  own  it  did ; — out  your  comparison  is  no»  just. 
I  did  not  see  well,  belbre  I  used  my  philosophic  eye-ivater; 
I  only  supposed  T  saw  well  ;  hut  I  was  in  an  error,  witil  all 
the  rest  of  mankind.  The  blindness  was  real,  the  percep- 
tions were  imaginary.  1  cured  r  Jyself  first  of  those  false  ima- 
ginations, and  then  I  lauda])ly  endeavoured  to  cure  other  men. 

Locke.  A  great  cure  indeed  ! — and  do  not  you  think  that, 
in  return  for  tiae.  service  you  did  them,  they  ought  to  erect 
you  a  statue  ? 

Bayle.  Yes  ;  it  is  good  for  human  nature  to  know  its  own 
weakness.  When  we  arrogantly  presiune  on  a  strength  we 
have  not,  we  are  always  in  great  danger  of  hurting  our- 
selves, or  at  least  *of  deserving  ridicule  and  contempt,  by 
vain  and  idle  efforts. 

Locke.  I  agree  with  you,  that  human  nature  shouM  kno^r 
its  own  weakness ;  hut  it  should_  al-o  ftti  its  strengih,  and 
try  to  improve  It.  This  was  my  e!np',»vijient  as  a  philoso- 
pher. I  endeavoured  to  discover  the  real  powers  of  the 
mind,  to  see  what  it  could  do,  and  what  it  could  not ;  to  re- 
,  strain  it  from  efforts  beyond  its  ability  ;  but  to  teach  it  how 
to  advance  as  far  as  the  faculties  given  to  it  by  nature,  with 
the  utmost  exertion  and  most  proper  culture  of  them,  would . 
allow  it  to  go.  In  the  vast  ocean  of  philosophy,  I  bad  the 
line  and  the  plummet  always  in  my  hands.  Many  of  its 
depths  I  found  myself  unable  to  fathom  ;  but,  by  caution  in 
sounding,  and  the  careful  ohservatlons  T  m-rde  iii  the  course  of 
my  voyage,  I  found  out  some  truths  of  so  much  use  to  man- 
kind, that  they  acknowledge  nio  to  have  been  their  bonciactor. 

JJayle,  Their  ignorance  mukes  them  think  so.  i-ome  other 
philosopher  will  come  hereafter,  and  ^^how  those  trutlu  Lo  he 
fahehoods.     He   will  pretend   t»  disfovtr  ether  trtit1is»  •!* 


109 


THE  JJNGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


6qual  importance.  A  later  sage  will  arise,  perhaps  among 
men  now  barbarous  and  unlearned,  whose  sagacious  disco- 
veries will  discredit  the  opinions  of  his  admired  predecessor. 
In  philosophy,  as  in  nature,  all  changes  its  form,  and  one 
thing  exists  by  the  destruction  of  another. 

Locke,  Opinions  taken  up  without  a  patient  investigation, 
depending  on  terms  not  accurately  defined,  and  principles 
begged  without  proof,  like  theories  to  explain  the  phsenome- 
na  of  nature,  built  on  suppositions  instead  of  experiments, 
must  perpetually  change  and  destroy  one  another.  But  some 
opinions  there  are,  even  in  matters  not  obvious  to  the  com- 
mon sense  of  mankind,  which  the  mind  has  received  on  such 
rational  grounds  of  assent,  that  they  are  as  immoveable  as  the 
pillars  of  heaven  ;  or  (to  speak  pliilosophically)  as  the  great 
laws  of  Nature,  by  which,  under  God,  the  universe  is  sus- 
tained. Can  you  seriously  think,  that  because  the  hypothe- 
sis of  your  countryman,  Descartes,  which  was  notiilng  but  an 
ingenious,  well-imagined  romance,  has  been  lately  exploded, 
the  system  of  Newton,  wr*."ch  is  built  on  experiments  and 
geometry,  the  two  most  certain  methods  of  discovering  truth, 
will  ever  fail ;  or  that,  because  the  whims  of  fanatics  and 
the  divinity  of  the  schoohron,  cannot  now  be  supported,  the 
floctrines  of  that  religion,  which  1,  the  declared  enemy  of 
all  enthusiasm  and  false  reasoning,  firmly  believed  and  maui- 
tained,  will  ever  be  shaken  t 

Bayle.  If  you  had  asked  Descartes,  w'hile  he  was  in  the 
height  of  his  vogue,  whether  his  system  Vould  ever  be  con- 
futed by  any  other  philosophers,  as  that  of  Aristotle  had  been 
hy  his,  what  answer  do  you  suppose  he  w6uld  have  returned? 

Locke*  Come,  come,  you  yourself  know  the  difference  be- 
tween the  foundations  on  which  tlie  credit  of  those  systems, 
and  that  of  Newton,  is  placed.  Your  scepticism  is  more  af- 
fected than  real..  You  found  it  a  shorter  way  to  a  great  re- 
putation (the  only  wish  of  your  heart,)  to  object,  than  to  de- 
fend ;  to  piHl  down,  than  to  set  up.  And  your  talentr  were 
admirable  for  that  kind  ot  work.  Then  your  huddling  to« 
gether  in  a  Critical  Dictionary,  a  pleasant  tale,  or  obscene 
jest,  and  a  grave  ai'gument  against  the  (-hristian  religion,  a 
witty  confutation  of  some  absurd  author,  and  an  artful  sophism 
to  impeach  some  respectable  truth,  was  particularly  commo- 
dious to  all  our  young  smarts -and  smatterers  in  free-think- 
ing. But  what  mischief  have  you  not  done  to  human  socffety? 
Tou  have  endeavoured,  and  with  some  degree  of  success,  to 
shake  those  foundations  on  which  the  whole  moral  world, 
p6A  die  great  fajinrtc  of  social  happiness,  entirely  rest.     Horr 


Chap.  YII. 


©lALOGUKS. 


1^ 


/ 


could  you,  as  a  philosopher,  in  the  sober  hours  of  reflection, 
answer  for  this  to  your  conscience,  even  supposing  you  had 
doubts  of  the  truth  of  a  system  which  trives  to  virtue  its  sweet- 
est hopes,  to  impenitent  vice  its  greatest  (ears,  and  to  true 
penitence  its  best  consolations ;  which  restrains  even  the  leasfc 
;<pproaches  to  guilt,  and  yet  makes  those  allowances  for  the 
infirmities  of  our  nature,  which  th(^  Stoic  pride  denied  to  it ; 
but  which  its  real  imperfection,  w.ui  die  goodness  of  its  infit- 
nitely  benevolent  Creator,  so  evideiiily  required 

Bayle.  The  mind  is  free ;  and  it  loves  to  exert  its  free- 
dom. Any  restraint  upon  it  is  a  violence  done  to  its  nature, 
?nd  a  tyranny,  against  >vhich  it  has  a  right  to  rebel. 

Locke,  The  mind,  though  free,  has  a  governor  within  it- 
self, which  may  and  ought  to  limit  the  exercise  of  its  free- 
dom.    That  governor  is  reason. 

Bayle,  Yes: — but  reason,  like  other  governors,  has  3 
policy  more  dependent  upon  uncertain  caprice,  than  upon  any 
fixed  laws.  And  if  that  reason,  which  rules  my  mind  or 
yours,  has  happened  to  set  up  a  favourite  notion,  it  not  only 
submits  implicitly  to  it,  but  desires  that  the  same  respect 
should  be  paid  to  it  by  all  the  rest  of  mankind.  Now  I  hold 
tliat  any  man  may  lawfully  oppose  this  depire  in  another, 
nnd  that  if  he  is  wise,  he  will  use  his  utmost  endeavours  to 
check  it  in  himself. 

Locke.  Is  there  not  also  a  weakness  of  a  contrary  nature 
to  this  you  are  now  ridiculing?  Do  we  not  often  take  a  plea-. 
sure  in  showing  our  own  power,  and  gratifying  our  own 
pride,  by  degrading  the  notions  set  up  by  other  men,  and 
generally  respected? 

Bayle,  I  believe  we  do ;  and  by  this  means  it  often  hap- 
pens, that,  if  one  man  builds  and  consecrates  a  temple  to  (olS 
iy,  another  pulls  it  down. 

'^  'Locke,  Do  you  think  it  beneficial  to  human  society,  fo 
have  all  temples  pulled  dow  n? 

Bayle.  I  cannot  say  that  I  do. 

Locke.  Yet  I  fmd  not  in  your  writin^^rs  any  mai*k  of  dts- 
ti action,  to  e^liow  us  whicli  you  mean  to  save. 

Bayle.  A  true  philosopher,  like  an  impartial  historiatt, 
iTUist  be  of  no  sect. 

Locke,  Is  tliere  no  medium  between  the  blind  zeal  of  a 
sectary,  and  a  total  hiditrereiicc  to  all  religion? 
"^^aiz/e.  With  regard  to  morality,  1  was  not  indhferent. 

Locke,  How  could  you  then  be  indifferent  with  regard  Co 
the  sanctions  religion  pves  to  mor.dity  '  How  could  you  pub- 
lish what  tends  so  directiy  and  apparently  tt  weaken  In  nOEff- 


mn 


m 


ii: 


^1 '  1 


.. .'  i 


^  s 


• 


110 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I 


kind  the  belief  of  those  sanctions  ?  Was  not  this  sacrificing 
the  great  interests  of  virtue  to  the  little  motives  of  vanity? 

Baijle.  A  man  may  act  indiscreetly,  but  he  cannot  do 
wrong,  by  declaring  that,  which,  on  a  full  discussion  of  the 
question,  he  sincerely  thinks  to  be  true. 

Locke.  An  enthusiast,  who  advances  doctrines  prejudicial  to 
society,  or  opposes  any  that  are  useful  to  it,  has  the  strength 
of  opinion,  and  the  heat  of  a  disturbed  imagination,  to  plead 
in  nlleviation  of  his  fault.  But  your  cool  head  and  sound 
judgment  can  liave  no  such  excuse.  I  know  very  well  there 
are  passages  in  all  your  works,  and  those  not  few,  where  you 
t-^lk  like  a  rigid  moralist.  I  have  also  heard  that  your  charac- 
ter was  irreproachably  good.  But  when,  in  the  most  laboured 
parts  of  your  writings,  you  sap  the  surest  foundations  of  all 
uiorn,]  duties,  what  avails  it  that  in  others,  or  in  the  conduct 
of  your  life,  you  appeared  to  respect  them  ?  How  many, 
who  have  stj  onger  passions  than  you  had,  and  are  desirous  to 
get  rid  of  the  curb  that  restrains  them,  will  lay  hold  of  your 
sceptic'sm,  to  set  themselves  loose  from  all  obligations  of  vir- 
t'le !  What  a  misfortune  is  it  to  have  made  such  a  use  of  such 
talents  !  It  would  have  been  better  for  you  and  for  mankind, 
if  you  bad  been  one  of  the  dullest  of  Dutch  theolo^ans,  or 
the  most  credidous  monk  in  a  Portuguese  convent.  The 
r'clics  of  the  mind,  like  those  of  fortune,  may  be  employed 
«o  perversely,  as  to  become  a  nuisance  and  pest,  instead  of 
an  ornament  and  support  to  society. 

Baijlc.  You  are  very  severe  upon  me. — But  do  you  count 
it  no  merit,  no  service  to  mankind,  to  deliver  them  from  the 
frauds  and  fetters  of  priestcraft,  from  the  deliriums  of  fanati- 
cism, and  from  the  terrors  and  follies  of  superstition?  Con- 
si  Jer  liow  much  mischief  these  have  done  to  the  world! 
Even  in  the  last  age,  what  massacres,  what  civil  wars,  what 
convulsions  of  government,  what  confusion  in  society,,  did 
they  produce!  Nay,  in  that  we  both  lived  in,  though  much 
more  enlightened  than  the  former,  did  I  not  see  them  occa- 
sion a  violent  persecution  in  my  own  country  ?  and  can  you 
blame  me  lor  striking  at  the  root  of  these  evils? 

Locke,  The  root  of  these  evils,  you  well  know,  was  false 
religion ;  but  you  struck  at  the  true.  Heaven  and  hell  are  not 
more  difl'erent,  than  the  system  of  faith  I  defended,  and  that 
which  produced  the  horrors  of  which  you  speak.  Why 
would  you  so  fallaciously  confound  them  together  in  some  of 
your  writings,  that  it  requires  much  more  judgment,  and  a 
more  diligent  attention,  than  ordinary  readers  have,  to  sepa- 
rate thena  again,  and  to  make  th^  proper  distinctions?  This, 


Chat.  Till.        PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 


Ill 


indeed,  is  the  great  art  of  the  most  celebrated  free-thinker^!. 
They  recommend  themselves  to  warm  and  ingenuous  minds, 
by  lively  strokes  of  wit,  and  by  arguments  really  strong, 
against  superstition,  enthusiasm,  and  priestcraft.  But,  at  the 
same  time,  they  insidiously  throw  the  colours  of  tlicse  upon 
the  fair  face  of  true  religion  ;  and  dress  her  out  in  their  garb, 
with  a  malignant  intention  to  render  her  odious  or  despicable 
to  those  who  have  not  penetration  enough  to  discern  the  im- 
pious fraud.  Some  of  tliem  may  have  thus  deceived*  them- 
eelves,  as  well  as  others.  Yet  it  is  certain,  no  book  that  ever 
was  written  by  the  most  acute  of  these  gentlemen,  is  so  re- 
pugnant to  priestcraft,  to  spiritual  tyranny,  to  all  absurd 
superstitions,  to  all  that  can  tend  to  disturb  or  injure  society, 
as  that  gospel  they  so  much  affect  to  despise. 

Bayle.  Mankind  are  so  made,  that,  when  they  have  been 
over-heated, they  cannot  be  brought  to  a  proper  temper  again, 
till  they  have  been  over-cooled.  My  scepticism  might  be  ne- 
cessary to  abate  the  fever  and  phrenzy  of  false  reli^on. 

Locke.  A  wise  prescription,  indeed,  to  bring  on  a  paraly- 
tica! state  of  the  mind,  (for  such  a  scepticism  as  yours  is  a 
palsy,  which  deprives  the  mind  of  all  vigour,  and  deadens  its 
natural  and  vital  powers,)  in  order  to  take  off  a  fever,  whicli 
temperance,  and  the  milk  of  the  evangelical  doctrines^  vould 
probably  cure! 

Bayle,  I  acknowledge  that  those  medicines  have  a  great 
power.  But  few  doctors  apply  them  untainted  with  the  mix- 
ture of  some  harsher  dnig^s,  or  some  unsafe  and  ridiculous 
nostrums  of  their  own. 

Locke.  What  you  now  say  is  too  true.  God  has  given  us 
a  most  excellent  physic  for  the  soul,  in  all  its  diseases ;  but 
bad  and  interested  physicians,  or  ignorant  and  conceited 
quacks,  administer  it  so  ill  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  that  much 
of  the  benefit  ©f  it  is  unhappily  lost.  lord  lyttleton. 


CHAPTER  VJII. 
PUBLIC  SPEECHES, 

SECTION  L 

Cicero  against  Verreb. 
THE  time  is  come,  fathers,  when  that  which  has  long 
been  wished  for,  towards  allaying  the  envy  your  order  has 
been  subject  to,  and  removing  the  imputation  against  trial?, 
is  effectually  put  in  your  power.  An  opinion  has  long  pre- 
vailed, not  Only  here  at  home,  but  likewise  in  foreign  count 

/■It  ■  ■     ■ 


ik 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  !. 


p 


tfies,  both  dangerous  to  you,  and  pernicious  to  the  state — 
that,  in  prosecutions,  men  of  wealth  are  always  safe,  liovv- 
•ver  clearly  convicted. 

2  There  is  now  to  be  brought  upon  his  trial  before  you,  to 
the  confusion,  i  hope,  of  the  propagatoi*s  of  tliis  slanderuud 
imputation,  one  whose  lile  and  actions  condemn  him  in  the 
opinion  of  impartial  persons  ;  hut  who,  according  to  hid  own 
reckoning,  and  declared  dependence  upon  his  riches,  is  already 
acquitted  ;  1  mean  (Jaius  Verres.  1  demand  justice  of  you, 
fathers,  upon  the  robber  of  the  public  treasury,  the  oppressor 
of  Asia  Minor  and  Paniphylia,  the  invader  of  the  rignts  and 
|xrivileges  of  Romans,  tiie  scourge  and  curse  of  Sicily. 

3  If  thai  sentence  is  passed  upon  him  which  his  crimes  de- 
Serve,  your  authority,  falliers,  will  be  venerable  and  sacred 
in  the  eyes  of  the  public :  but  if  his  great  riches  should  bias  you 
in  his  favour,  I  shall  still  gain  one  point — to  make  it  apparent 
to  all  the  world,  that  what  was  wanting  in  this  case,  was  nor 
a  criminal  nor  a  prosecutor,  but  justice  and  adequate  punish- 
ment. 

4  To  pass  over  the  shameful  irregularities  of  his  youth, 
what  does  his  quaestorship,  the  first,  public  employment  he 
iield,  what  does  it  exliibit,  but  one  continued  scene  of  villa- 
nies?  Cneius  Carbo,  plundered  of  the  public  money  by  hi 
own  treasurer,  a  consul  stripped  and  betrayed,  an  army  de- 
serted and  reduced  to  want,  a  province  robbed,  the  civil  and 
Teligious  rights  of  a  people  violated. 

•  6  The  employment  he  held  in  Asia  Minor  and  Pamphylia, 
ivhat  did  it  produce  but  the  ruin  of  those  countries?  In  which 
liouses,  cities,  and  temples,  were  robbed  by  him.  What 
was  his  conduct  in  his  pra^torship  here  at  home?  Let  the 
f)lundered  temples,  and  public  works  neglected,  that  he 
might  embezzle  the  money  intended  for  carrying  them  on, 
\)ear  witness.  How  did  he  discharge  the  office  of  a  judge? 
Let  those  who  sufiered  by  his  injustice  answer. 

6  But  his  praetorship  in  Sicily  crowns  all  his  works  of  wick- 
edness, and  furnishes  a  lasting  monument  to  his  infamy.  The 
mischiefs  done  by  him  in  that  unhappy  country,  during  the 
three  years  of  his  iniquitous  administration,  are  such,  that  many 
frears,  under  the  wisest  and  best  of  praetors,  will  not  be  suffi- 
cient to  restore  things  to  the  condition  in  which  he  found  them  : 
for  it  is  notorious,  that,  during  the  time  of  his  tyranny,  the  Si- 
cilians neither  enjoyed  the  protection  of  their  own  original 
laws ;  of  the  regulations  made  for  their  benefit  by  the  Roman 
senate,  u^on  their  coming  under  the  protection  of  the  com 
VElcmwealth;  nor  of  the  natural  and  unalienable  rights  of  men 


■^- 


!'•»• 


Chaf.  Vm.         PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 


lid 


.^7  His  nod  has  decided  all  causes  in  Sicily  for  these  three 
years.  And  his  decisions  have  broken  all  law,  all  prece- 
dent, all  right.  The  sums  he  has,  by  arbitrary  taxes  and 
unheard  of  Impositions,  extorted  from  the  industrious  poor, 
are  not  to  be  computed. 

8  The  most  I'aithful  allies  of  the  commonwealth  have  been 
treated  as  enemies.  Roman  citizens  have,  like  slaves,  been 
put  to  death  with  tortures.  The  most  atrocious  criminals^  for 
money,  have  been  exempted  from  the  deserved  punishments  ; 
and  men  of  the  most  unexceptionable  characters,  condemned 
and  banished  unhealed. 

9  The  harbours,  though  sufficiently  fortified,  and  the  gates 
of  strong  towns,  have  been  opened  to  pirates  and  ravagers. 
The  soldiery  and  sailors,  belonging  to  a  province  under  the 
protection  of  the  commonwealth,  have  been  starved  to  death ; 
whole  fleets,  to  the  great  detriment  of  the  province,  suHered 
to  perish.  The  ancient  monuments  of  either  Sicilian  or  Ro- 
man greatness,  the  statues  of  heroes  and  princes,  have  been 
carried  off;  and  the  temples  stripped  of  their  images. 

10  Having  by  his  iniquitous  sentences,  filled  the  prisons 
with  the  most  industrious  and  deserving  of  the  people,  he 
then  proceeded  to  order  numbers  of  Roman  citizens  to  be 
strangled  in  the  gaols;  so  that  the  exclamation,  ^*  I  am  a  citi- 
zen of  Rome !"  which  has  often,  in  the  most  distant  regions 
and  among  the  most  barbarous  people,  been  a  protection, 
was  of  no  service  to  them  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  brought  a 
speedier  and  a  more  severe  punishment  upon  them. 

11  I  ask  now,  Verres,  what  thou  hast  to  advance  against 
this  charge?  Wilt  thou  pretend  to  deny  it?  Wilt  thou  pre- 
tend that  any  thing  false,  that  even  any  thing  aggravated,  is 
alleged  against  thee?  Had  any  prince,  or  any  state,  commit- 
ted the  same  outrage  against  the  privilege  of  Roman  citizens, 
should  we  not  think  we  had  sufficient  ground  for  demanding 
satisfaction  ? 

12  What  punishment  ought,  then,  to  be  inflicted"  upon  a 
tyrannical  and  wicked  praetor,  who  dared,  at  no  greater  dis- 
tance than  Sicily,  within  sight  of  the  Italian  coasit,  to  put  to 
the  infamous  death  of  crucifixion,  that  unfortunate  and  iunO' 
cent  citizen  Publius  Gavius  Cosanus,  only  for  his  having  as- 
serted his  privilege  of  citizenship,  and  declared  liis  intention 
of  appealing  to  the  justice  of  his  country,  against  the  cruel 
oppressor,  who  had  unjustly  confined  him  in  prison  at  Syra- 
cuse, whence  he  had  just  ma^  his  escape  1 

13  The  unhappy  man,  arrested  as  he  was  going  to  embark 
for  his  native  country,  is  brouL'-lt  before  the  wicked  praetor. 

K2 


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■Li^. 


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'liM' 


SM'" 


r<^ 


114 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


With  eyes  darting  fury,  and  a  countenance  distorted  with 
cruelty,  he  orders  the  lielpleas  victim  of  his  rage  to  be  strip- 

f)ed,  and  rods  to  be  brought ;  accusing  him,  but  without  the 
east  shadow  of  evidence,  or  even  of  suspicion,  of  having 
come  to  Sicily  as  a  spy. 

14  It  was  in  vain  that  the  unhappy  man  cried  out,  "  I  am 
R  Roman  citizen;  I  have  served  under  Lucius  Pretius,  who 
In  now  at  Panormus,  and  will  attest  my  innoce;nce."  Thf» 
blood-thirsty  praetor,  deaf  to  all  he  could  urge  in  his  own  de- 
fence, ordered  the  infamous  punishment  to  be  inflicted. 

15  Thus,  fathers,  was  an  innocent  Roman  citizen  publicly 
mangled  with  scouririni^ ;  whilst  the  only  words  he  uttered, 
amidst  his  cruel  suffcrinj^,  were,  "  T  am  a  Roman  citizen !" 
With  these  he  hoped  to  defend  himself  from  violence  and  infa- 
my. But  of  so  little  seivice  was  thi3  privilege  to  him,  that, 
while  he  was  thus  asserting  his  citizenship,  the  order  was 
given  for  his  execution — for  his  execution  upon  the  cross  ! 

16  ()  liberty  ! — ()  sound  once  delightful  to  every  Roman 
ear! — O  sacred  priviloije  of  Roman  citizenship  ! — once 
«acred  !-now  trampled  upon  ! — But  what  then?  Is  it  come 
to  this?  Shall  an  inferior  magistrate,  a  governor,  who  holds 
his  whole  power  of  the  Roman  people,  in  a  Roman  provMnco, 
^vithin  sight  of  Italy,  bind,  scourge,  torture  with  fire  and 
red-hot  plates  of  iron,  and  at  last  put  to  the  Infamous  death 
of  the  cross,  a  Roman  citizen  ? 

17  Shall  neither  the  cries  of  innocence  expiring  in  agony, 
nor  the  tears  of  pitying  spectatoi's,  nor  the  majesty  of  the 
Roman  commonwealth,  nor  the  fear  of  the  justice  of  his 
country,  restrain  the  licentious  and  wanton  cruelty  of  a  mori- 
ffer,  who,  in  confidence  of  his  riches,  strikes  at  the  root  of 
liberty,  and  sets  mankind  at  defiance? 

18  I  conclude  with  expressing  my  hopes,  that  your  wis- 
dom and  justice,  fathers,  will  not,  by  suffering  the  atro- 
cious and  unexampled  insolence  of  Caius  Verres  to  escape 
due  punishment,  leave  room  to  apprehend  the  danger  of  a 
total  subversion  of  authority,  and  the  introduction  of  general 
anarchy  and  confusion.  cicero's  orations. 

SECTION  n. 

Speech  of  knHERB at.  to  the  Roman  SenatCy  imploring  their 

protection  against  Jugurtha. 
fathers! 

IT  is  known  to  you,  that  king  Micipsa,  my  father,  on  his 
death-bed,  left  in  charge  to  Jugurtha,  his  adopted  son,  con- 
^nctly  with  my  unfortunate  brother  Hiempsal  and  myself, 


T    I. 


Chap.  YIII.        PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 


115 


the  children  of  his  own  body,  the  adminstration  of  the  kinji- 
doin  of  Numidia,  directing  us  to  conf^idcr  tlie  sennteiind  peo- 
ple of  Rome  uh  proprietors  of  it.  lie  charged  uh  to  use 
liur  best  endeavoiirs  to  l)e  serviceable  to  the  Romnn  com- 
inouvvealth;  assurlncf  us,  tiiat  your  protection  would  prove 
n  defence  against  all  enemies;  and  would  he  instead  of  nr> 
rules,  fortifications,  and  treasures. 

2  ^Vllile  my  brother  and  I  were  thinkinjr  of  nothing  hut  liow 
to  regulate  ourselves  according  to  the  directions  of  our  de- 
ceased father — Jugurtha — the  most  infamous  of  mankind  ! — 
breaking  through  all  ties  of  gratitude  and  of  common  hn- 
manity,^and  trampling  on  the  authority  of  the  Roman  com- 
monwealth, procured  the  murder  of  my  unfoiliinate  brother; 
and  has  driven  me  from  my  throne  and  native  country,  tlioiiyh 
he  knows  I  inherit,  from  my  grandfather  Massinissa,  and  my 
father  Micipsa,  the  friendship  and  alliance  of  the  Roman*. 

3  For  a  prince  to  be  reduced,  by  villany,  to  my  distress- 
ful circumstances,  is  calamity  enough ;  but  my  misfortunes  are 
heightened  by  the  consideration — that  I  find  myself  ohlii^ed 
to  solicit  your  assistance,  fathers,  for  the  services  done  you 
by  my  ancestors,  not  for  any  1  have  been  able  to  render  you 
in  my  own  person.  Jugurtha  has  put  it  out  of  my  power  to 
deserve  any  thing  at  your  hands;  and  has  forced  me  to  be 
burdensome,  before  I  could  be  useful  to  you.  "  -«' 

4  And  yet,  if  I  had  no  plea,  but  my  undeserved  misery — 
a  once  powerful  prince,  the  descendant  of  a  race  of  illustrious 
monarchs,  now,  without  any  fault  of  my  own,  destitute*  of 
every  suppoi*t,  and  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  begi^ing  fo- 
reign assistance,  against  an  enemy  who  has  seized  my  throne 
and  my  kingdom — if  my  unequalled  distresses  were  all  I  hjtd 
to  plead — it  would  become  the  greatness  of  the  Roman  com- 
monwealth, to  protect  tlie  injured,  and  to  check  the  triumph 
of  daring  wickedness  over  helpless  innocence. 

6  But,  to  provoke  your  resentment  to  the  utmost,  Jufjur- 
tha  has  driven  me  from  the  very  dominions  which  the  se- 
nate and  people  of  Rome  gave  to  my  ancestors;  and  from 
which  my  grandfather,  and  ray  father,  under  your  umbra ji^e, 
expelled  Syphax  and  the  Carthagenians.  Thus,  fathers^,- 
your  kindness  to  our  family  is  defeated;  and  Jugurtha,  in- 
injuring  me,  Uirovs  contempt  upon  you. 

6  O  wretched  prince !  Oh  cruel  reverse  of  fortune  !  Oh 
father  Micipsa!  Is  this  the  conse;(uence  of  thy  irenerosity ; 
that  he  whom  thy  goodness  raised  to  an  equality  \\\\)\  thy  «nvn 
fhildren,  should  be  the  murderer  of  thy  children?    >\\%A^ 


% 


<: 


■i   i 

Y 

146 


TO»  WNSLISri  REABKR.  Paut  1. 


flkeOf  the  r^yal  house  of  Nutnidia  always  be  a  scene  of  havoc 
and  blood? 

7  While  Carthage  remained,  we  suffered,  as  was  to  be 
'  ejected,  all  sorts   of  hardships  from  their  hostile  attacks ; 

0ur  enemy  near ;  our  only  powerful  ally,  the  Roman  com- 
monwealth, at  a  distance.  When  that  scourge  of  Africa  was 
no  more,  we  congratulated  ourselves  on  the  prospect  of  es- 
tablished peace.  But,  instead  of  peace,  behold  the  king- 
dom o(  Numidia  drenched  with  royal  blood !  anv»  tlie  only 
surviving  son  of  its  late  king,  flying  from  an  adopted  mui-- 
dfcrer,  and  seeking  that  safety  in  foreign  p/ii*ts,  which  he 
c&nnot  command  in  his  own  kingdom.  f7      ..' 

8  Whither— Oh!  whither  shall  I  fly  ?  If  I  return  to  the 
royal  palace  of  my  ancestors,  my  father's  throne  is  seized 
by  the  murderer  of  my  brother.  What  can  I  there  expect, 
but  that  Jugurtha  should  hasten  to  imbrue,  in  my  blood,  taose 
iisnds  which  arc  now  reeking 'with  my  brother's?  If  I  were 
td  fly  for  refuge,  or  for  assistance  to  any  other  court,  from 
wliat  prince  can  I  hope  for  protection,  if  the  Roman  com- 
Ijt^nwealth  give  me-  up  ?  From  my  own  family  or  friends 
)  have  no  expectations. 

9  My  royal  father  is  no  more.  He  is  beyond  the  reach 
of  violence,  and  out  of  hearing  of  the  complaints  of  his  un- 
happy son.  Were  my  brother  alive,  our  mutual  sympathy 
would  be  some  alleviation.  But  he  is  hurried  out  of  life,  in 
lUS  early  youth,  by  the  very  hand  v\  hich  should  have  been  the 
Imt  to  injure  any  of  the  royal  family  of  Numidia. 

"  10  The  bloody  Jugurtha  has  butchered  all  whom  he  sus* 
|H9cted  to  be  in  my  interest.  Some  have  been  destroyed  by 
the  lingering  torment  of  the  cross.  Others  have  been  given 
A^  prey  to  wild  beasts ;  and  their  anguish  made  the  sport  of 
men  more  cruel  than  wild  beasts.  If  there  be  any  yet  alive, 
l^cy  are  shut  up  in  dungeons,  there  to  drag  out  a  life  more 
Intolerable  than  death  itself. 

11  Look  down,  illustrious  senators  of  Rome!  from  thai 
Ixeight  of  power  to  which  you  are  raised,  on  the  unexampled 
Stresses  of  a  prince,  who  is,  by  the  cruelty  of  a  wicked  jn- 
touder,  become^  an  outcast  from  all  mankind.  Let  not  the 
crafty  insinuations  of  liini  who  returns  murder  for  adoption, 
prejudice  your  judgment.  Do  not  listen  to  the  wretch  who 
Ipas  butchered  the  son  and  relations  of  a  king,  who  gave  him 
gipwer  to  sit  on  the  same  throne  with  his  own  sons. 

12  I  have  been  informed  that  he  labours  by  his  emissaries 
tp  prevent  your  determining  any  thing  against  him  in  his  ab- 
M^c^;  pretOi4i«g  that  I  msigmfy  my  distress,  and  might. 


Chap.  VIII.        PTTBLIC  SPEKCHKS. 


Ill 


lor  him,  have  staid  in  peace  in  my  own  kingdom.  But,  if 
ever  the  time  comes,  when  tiie  due  vengeance  from  Hhove 
^llail  overtake  him,  he  will  then  dissenihle  as  I  do.  Then 
iie  who,  now  hanlenetl  in  wickedtwss,  tnimiphs  over  thosH 
whom  hia  violence  has  laid  low,  will,  in  hi^  turn,  feel  dis- 
tr«'ss,  and  anfler  for  his  impious  ingratitude  to  my  father, 
ujkI  his  blood-thii*9ty  cruelty  to  mv  hrother. 

13  Oh  murdered,  butchered  hrother!  Oh,  dearest  to  mv 
iieart—  now  gone  for  ever  from  my  sight ! — hut  why  shnuhl 
i  lament  his  death  ?  He  is,  indeed,  deprived  of  the  blessed 
li;;ht  of  heaven,  of  life,  and  kingdom,  at  once,  by  the  very 
p«M's()n  who  ought  to  have  been  the  first  to  hazard  his  own 
liie,  in  defence  of  any  one  of  lVlicipsa*s  family.  But,  an 
tilings  are,  my  brother  is  not  so  much  deprived  of  these  com- 
jurls,  as  delivered  from  terror,  from  flight,  from  exile,  and 
the  endless  train  of  miseries  which  render  life  to  me  a  burden. 

14  He  lies  full  low,  gored  with  wounds,  and  festering  in 
Mm  own  hlood.  But  he  lies  in  peace.  He  feels  none  of 
tiie  miseries  which  rend  my  soul  with  agony  and  distraction, 
while  I  am  set  up  a  spectacle  to  all  mankind,  of  the  uncer- 
tainty of  human  affairs.  So  far  from  havinir  it  in  my  powei 
to  punish  his  murderer,  I  am  not  master  of  the  means  of  se- 
curing my  own  life.  So  far  from  being  in  a  condition  to  de- 
fend my  kingdom  from  the  violence  of  the  usurper,  1  am  ob- 
liged to  apply  for  foreign  protection  for  my  own  person. 

15  Fatliers !  Senators  of  Borne!  the  arbiters  of  nations! 
to  you  I  fly  for  refuge  from  the  murderous  fury  of  Jugur- 
Iha.  By  your  affection  for  your  children  ;  by  your  love  for 
vour  country  ;  by  your  own  virtues ;  by  the  majesty  of  the 
) Ionian  commonwealth  ;  by  all  that  is  sacred,  and  all  that  is 
dear  to  you— deliver  a  wretched  prince  from  undeserved, 
unprovoked  injury ;  and  save  the  kingdom  of  Numidla, 
which  is  your  own  property,  from  being  the  prey  of  violence, 
usurpatio()i,  and  cruelty.  sallust. 

SECTION  HI. 

7%e  Apostle  Paul's  defence  before  Festus  arid  Agrippa. 

AGRIPPA  said  unto  Paul,  thou  art  permitted  to  speak  for 
thyself.  Then  Paul  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  answered 
for  himself.  I  think  myself  happy,  king  Agrippa,  because 
I  shall  answer  for  myself  this  day  before  thee,  concerning 
all  the  things  whereof  I  am  accused  by  the  Jew^s ;  especial- 
ly, as  I  know  thee  to  be  expert  in  all  customs  and  questiorn 
which  are  among  the  Jews.  Wherefore  I  beseech  thee  to 
bear  ire  ptitiently. 


i 

f.Mtfm 

f 

ill  ■ 


%i 


118 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  h 


2  My  manner  of  life  from  my  youth,  which  was  at  the 
kirst  among  my  own  nation  at  Jerusalem,  know  all  the  Jews, 
who  knew  me  from  the  beginning,  (if  they  would  testif),) 
that  after  the  straitest  sect  of  our  religion,  I  lived  a  Pharisee. 
And  now  I  stand  and  am  judged  for  the  hope  of  the  promi^e 
made  by  God  to  our  fathers  ;  to  which  promise  our  twel\ «^ 
tribes,  continually  serving  God  day  and  night,  hope  to 
come  ;  and,  for  this  hope's  sake,  king  Agrippa,  I  am  ac- 
cused by  the  Jews. 

3  Why  should  it  be  thought  a  thing  incredible  with  you, 
that  God  should  raise  the  dead  ?  I  verily  thought  with  my- 
self, that  I  ought  to  do  many  things  contrary  to  the  name  of 
Jesus  of  Nazareth  ;  and  this  I  did  in  Jerusalem.  Many  of 
the  saints  1  shut  up  in  prison,  having  received  authority  from 
the  chief  priests ;  and  when  they  were  put  to  death,  I  gave 
my  voice  against  them.  And  I  often  punished  them  in  every 
synagogue,  and  compelled  them  to  blaspheme  ;  and  being 
exceedingly  mad  against  them,  I  persecuted  them  even  unto 
strange  cities. 

4  But  as  I  weint  to  Damascus,  with  authority  and  coni- 
n^ission  from  the  chief  priests,  at  mid-day,  O  king !  I  sau^ 
in  the  way  a  light  from  heaven,  above  the  brightness  of  the 
sun,  shining  round  about  me,  and  them  who  journeyed  wilh 
me.  And  when  we  were  all  fallen  to  the  earth,  I  heard  a 
voice  speaking  to  me  and  saying,  in  the  Flehrew  tongue, 
Saul,  Saul,  wliy  persecutest  thou  me  ?  It  is  hard  for  thee 
to  kick  against  the  pricks.  And  I  said,  who  art  thou, 
Lord?  And  he  replied,  I  am  Jesus  whom  thon  persecutest. 

5  But  rise,  and  stand  upon  thy  feet:  for  I  have  appeared 
to  thee  for  this  purpose,  to  make  thee  a  minister,  and  a  wit- 
ness botli  of  these  things  which  thou  hast  seen,  and  of  those 
things  in  which  I  will  appear  to  thee ;  delivering  thee  from 
the  people,  and  from  the  Gentiles,  to  whom  I  now  send 
thee,  to  open  their  eyes,  and  to  turn  them  from  darkness  to 
light,  and  from  the  power  of  Satan  to  God ;  that  they  may 
receive  forgiveness  of  ants,  and  inheritance  amongst  them 
who  are  sanctified  by  faith  that  is  in  me. 

6  Whereupon,  O  king  Agrippa !  I  was  not  disobedient  to 
the  heavenly  vision  ;  but  showed  first  to  them  of  Damascus, 
and  at  Jerusalem,  and  through  all  the  coasts  of  Judea,  ajid 
then  to  the  Gentiles,  that  they  should  repent,  and  turn  to 
God,  and  do  works  meet  for  repentance.  For  these  causes, 
the  Jews  caught  me  in  the  tcmpie,  a: id  went  about  to  kill 
me.  Ilaviiig,  hov\evrr,  obtained  help  from  God,  I  con- 
tijaiie  to  this  diiy,  wilne?'?'Ing  both  to  surall  and  great,  say rftg 


no  ou 


IV 


',V1 


ships, 


cjiap.  yui.      public  speeches. 


119 


ii;>  other  things  than  those  which  the  prophets  juid  ]Mo  h'« 
(\clarecl  should  come  :  that  Christ  should  suflTer  ;  th^l  \\c 
n.)ulcl  be  the  first  who  should  rise  from  the  dead  ;  a:;d  laut 
ht?  would  show  light  to  the  people,  and  to  the  Gentiles. 

7  Aud  as  lie  thus  spoke  for  himself,  Festus  said,  will)  a 
1 'ud  voice>  "  Paul,  thou  art  beside  thyself;  much  hurnlr,:;- 
].,i(.ii  made  thee  mad."  But  he  replied,  I  am  not  m.ul, 
luost  noble  Festus  ;  but  speak  the  words  of  truth  and  sob(M  - 
1  cvss.  For  the  king  knoweth  these  things,  before  whom  [ 
a!so  speak  freely.  I  am  persuaded  that  none  of  these  things 
ui  e  hidden  from  him  ;  for  this  thing  was  not  done  in  a  coi*- 
iier.  King  Agrippa,  believest  thou  the  prophets  ?  I  know 
tvat  thou  believest.  Then  Agrippa  said  to  Paul,  ''  AinK^st 
ttiou  persuadest  me  to  be  a  Christian."  And  Paul  replied 
"  I  woidd  to  God,  that  not  only  thou,  but  also  all  that  hear 
mc  this  day,  were  both  almost,  and  altogether,  such  as  I  am, 
except  tliese  bonds."*  acts  xxvi. 

SECTION  IV. 

LfMin  BTansfield's  Si^eech  in  the  House  of  Peers,  1770,  on 
l.'w  Bill  for  preventing'  the  delays  of  Justice,  by  claiming 
ihe  Privilege  of  Parliament. 

MY  Lonus, 

VI  IE  'si  1  consider  the  iinportance  of  this  bill  to  your  lord- 
si  ilps,  I  ain  not  surprised  it  has  taken  up  so  much  of  your 
( (I'lsideration.  It  is  a  bill,  indeed,  of  no  common  magni- 
tude ;  it  is  no  less  than  to  take  away  from  two  thirds  of  the 
legislative  body  of  this  great  kingdom,  ceilain  privileges  and 
imnuinities  of  which  they  have  been  long  possessed.  Per- 
haps tiiere  is  no  situation  the  human  mind  can  be  placed  in, 
that  is  so  difficult  and  so  trying,  as  when  it  is  made  a  judge 
ill  its  ov*n  cause. 

2  There  is  something  implanted  in  the  breast  of  man  so 
altaclied  to  self,  so  tenacious  of  privileges  once  obtained, 
that  in  such  a  situation,  either  to  discuss  with  impartiality, 
or  decide  with  justice,  has  ever  been  held  the  summit  of  all 
human  virtue.  The  bill  now  in  question  puts  your  lord- 
ships in  this  very  predicament;  and  1  have  no  doubt  the  wis- 
dom of  your  decision  will  convince  the  world,  that  where 
self-interest  and  justice,  are  in  opposite  scales,  the  latter 
^vill  e\er  preponderate  with  your  lordships. 

*  How  liappy  wns  this  grrat  Apn«?Ie,  ev^'ii  in  tJie  iiiosit  porUons  circiiiiii^tancrfl 
Ti  oil!";!!  luulcr  bonds  himI  opprt'snion,  hip  iiiiml  was  I'rov,  and  raiw<i  ah'tvf  evory  fr.u 
of  man.  VV'iih  what  dignity  and  C(tnip«)8iMe  dot-B  lie  det'end  hiniM^lf,  and  tlie  nohlo 
eaust;  he  had  eppoustd  ;  whilst  he  dit;pluy8  the  most  cuinpasa-ioiiato  and  (generous  feel- 
ings, for  thote  who  were  strangers  to  the  tublirae  religion  by  wltich  he  wat  animated. 


r  ! 


"   ' ) .  ( 


rri*, 


^■■v.l^i/r".[W^: 

mm'     :34 


120 


THE  ENGLISH  READEll. 


Part  T. 


3  Privileges  have  been  granted  to  legislators  in  all  ages, 
and  in  all  countries.  The  practice  is  founded  in  wisdom ; 
and,  indeed,  it  is  peculiarly  essential  to  the  constitution  of 
this  country,  that  the  members  of  both  houses  should  be  ^rec^ 
in  their  person^,  in  cases  of  civil  suits  :  for  there  may  come 
a  time  when  the  safety  and  welfare  of  tjiis  whole  empire 
may  depend  upon  their  attendance  in  parliament.  I  am  Wn" 
from  advising  any  measure  that  would  in  future  endaiiijer  the 
state:  but  the  bill  before  your  lordships  has,  I  am  conlldt'nt, 
no  such  tendency ;  for  it  expressly  secures  the  persons  o! 
members  of  either  house  in  all  civil  suits. 

4  This  being  the  case,  I  confess,  when  I  see  many  noble 
lords,  for  whose  judgment  I  have  a  very  great  respect,  stand- 
ing up  to  oppose  a  bill  which  is  calculated  nierely  to  facili- 
tate the  recovery  of  just  and  legal  debts,  I  am  astonished 
and  amazed. 

They,  I  doubt  not,  oppose  the  bill  upon  public  principles  : 
I  would  not  wish  to  insinuate  that  private  interest  had  the 
least  weight  in  their  determination. 

5  The  bill  has  been  frequently  proposed,  and  as  frequent- 
ly has  miscarried :  but  it  was  always  lost  in  the  lower  house. 
JLittle  did  1  think,  when  it  had  passed  the  Commons,  that  it 
possibly  could  have  met  with  such  oppo:;<itiori  here.  Shall  it 
be  said,  that  you,  my  lords,  the  grand  council  of  the  nation, 
the  highest  judicial  and  legislative  body  of  the  realm,  en- 
deavour to  evade,  by  privilege,  those  very  laws  which  you 
enforce  on  your  fellow-subjects  1  Forbid  it  justice  !  I  am 
sure,  were  the  noble  lords  as  well  acquainted  as  I  am,  with 
but  half  the  difficulties  and  delays  occasioned  in  the  courts 
of  justice,  under  pretence  of  privilege,  they  would  not,  nay, 
they  could  not,  oppose  this  bill. 

6  I  have  waited  with  patience  to  hear  what  arguments 
might  be  urged  against  the  bill ;  but  [  have  waited  in  vain: 
the  truth  is,  there  is  no  argument  that  can  weigh  against  it. 
The  justice  and  expediency  of  the  bill  are  sucii  as  render  it 
self-evident.  It  is  a  proposition  of  that  niUure,  which  cnn 
neither  be  weakened  by  argument,  nor  enlaugled  with  soph- 
istry. Much,  indeed,  has  been  said  by  soiiie  noble  lot'ils, 
on  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors,  an(i  Low  diiTerently  they 
thought  from  us.  They  not  only  decreed,  that  privilege 
should  prevent  all  civil  suits  from  proceeding  during  the  sit- 
ting of  parliament,  but  likewise  granted  protection  to  the 
very  servants  of  members.  I  shall  say  noi-hing  on  the  wis- 
dom of  our  ancestors;  it  niL,' !  perhaps  appear  invidious: 
tliat  is  not  necessary  iii  the  prcatiit  case. 


Chap.  VIII.        PUBLIC  SPEECHES, 


121 


7  I  shall  only  say,  that  the  noble  lords  who  flatter  them- 
selves with  the  weight  of  that  reflection,  should  remember, 
that  as  circumstances  alter,  things  themselves  should  alter. 
Formerly,  it  was  not  so  fashionable  either  for  masters,  or 
servants,  to  nm  in  debt,  as  it  is  at  present.  Formerly,  we 
were  not  that  great  commercial  nation  we  are  at  present ;  nor 
formerly  were  merchants  and  manufacturei^  members  of 
parliament  as  at  present.  The  case  is  now  very  different ; 
both  merchants  and  manufacturers  are,  with  great  proprie- 
ty, elected  members  of  the  lower  house. 

8  Commerce  having  thus  got  into  th^  legislative  body  of 
the  kingdom,  privilege  must  be  done  away.  We  all  know 
that  the  very  soul  and  essence  of  trade  are  regular  pay- 
ments ;  and  sad  experience  teaches  us,  that  there  are  men, 
who  will  not  make  their  regular  payments  without  the  com- 
pulsive power  of  the  lawa.  The  law,  then,*ougiit  to  be  equally 
open  to  all.  Any  exemption  to  particular  men,  or  parti- 
cular ranks  of  men,  is,  in  a  free  and  commercial  country, 
a  solecism  of  the  grossest  nature. 

9  But  I  will  not  trouble  your  lordships  with  arguments  for 
that  which  is  sufficiently  evident  without  any.  I  shall  only 
gay  a  few  words  to  some  noble  lords,  who  foresee  much  ni- 
convenience,  from  the  persons  of  their  servants  being  liable 
to  be  arrested.  One  noble  lord  observes,  that  the  coach- 
man of  a  peer  may  be  arrested,  while  he  is  driving  his  master 
to  the  House,  and  that,  consequently,  he  will  not  be  able  to 
attend  his  duty  in  parliament.  If  this  were  actually  to  hap- 
pen, there  are  so  many  methods  by  which  the  member  might 
still  get  to  the  House,  that  I  can  hardly  think  the  noble  lord 
is  serious  in  his  objection. 

10  Another  noble  peer  said,  that,  by  this  bill,  one  might 
lose  his  most  valuable  and  honest  servants.  This  I  hold  to 
be  a  contradiction  in  terms  •  for  he  can  neither  be  a  valuable 
servant,  nor  an  honest  man,  who  gets  into  debt  which  he  is 
neither  able  nor  willing  to  pay,  till  compelled  by  the  law. 
If  my  servant,  by  unforeseen  accidents,  has  got  into  debt, 
and  I  stillfwish  to  retain  him,  I  certainly  would  pay  the  de- 
mand. But  upon  no  principle  of  liberal  legislation  what- 
ever, can  my  servant  have  a  title  to  set  his  creditors  at  defi- 
ance, while,  for  forty  shillings  only,  the  honest  tradesman 
may  be  torn  from  his  family,  and  locked  up  in  a  gaol.  It 
is  monstrous  injustice !  I  flatter  myself,  however,  the  de- 
termination of  this  day  will  entirely  put  an  end  to  all  these 
partial  proceedings  for  the  future,  by  passing  into  a  law  the 
bill  now  -under  your  lordships*  consideration. 


'  m 


*,.;ki.* 


122 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


Ill  now  come  to  speak  upon  what,  indeed.  I  n'ould  hnve 
gladly  avoided,  had  Inotbeen  particularly  pointed  at,  for  the 

f>art  I  have  taken,  in  this  hill,  [t  has  been  said,  by  a  nol»le 
ord  on  my  left  hand,  that  I  likewise  am  rdnninjr  the  race  of 
popularity.  If  the  noble  lord  means  by  popularity,  that  ap- 
plause bestowed  by  after  ages  on  good  and  virtuous  actions, 
I  have  long  been  struggling  in  that  race :  to  what  purpose, 
all-trying  time  can  alone  determine. 

12  But  if  the  noble  lord  means  that  mushroom  popularity, 
which  is  raised  without  merit,  and  lost  without  a  crime,  he  is 
much  mistaken  in  his  opinion.  I  defy  the  noble  lord  to  point 
out  a  single  action  of  my  life,  in  which  the  popularity  of  the 
times  ever  had  the  smallest  influence  on  my  determinations. 
I  thank  God  I  have  a  more  permanent  and  steady  rule  for  my 
conduct — ^the  dictates  of  my  own  breast. 

13  Those  who  have  foregone  that  pleasing  adviser,  and 
given  up  their  mind  to  be  the  slave  of  every  popular  impulse, 
I  sincerely  pity  :  I  pity  them  still  more,  if  their  vanity  leads 
them  to  mistake  the  shouts  of  a  mob  for  the  trumpet  of  fame. 
Experience  might  inform  them,  that  many,  who  have  been 
saluted  with  the  huzzas  of  a  crowd  one  day,  have  received 
their  execrations  the  next;  and  many,  who,  by  the  popular- 
ity of  their  times,  have  been  held  up  as  spotless  patriots,  have, 
nevertheless,  appeared  upon  tiie  historian's  page,  when  truth 
has  triumphed  over  delusion,  the  assassins  of  liberty. 

14  Why  then  the  noble  lord  can  think  I  am  ambitious  of 

fl^sent  popularity,  that  echo  of  folly,  and  shadow  of  renown, 
am  at  a  loss  to  determine.  Besides,  I  do  not  know  that  the 
bill  now  before  your  lordships  will  be  popular  :  it  depends 
much  upon  the  caprice  of  the  day.  It  may  not  be  popular  to 
compel  people  to  pay  their  debts  ;  and,  in  that  case,  the  pre- 
sent must  be  a  very  unpopular  bill. 

15  It  may  not  be  popular  either  to  take  a^vay  any  of  the  pri- 
vileges of  parliament ;  for  1  very"  well  remember,  and  many 
of  your  lordships  may  remember,  that,  not  long  ago,  the  po- 
pular cry  was  for  the  extension  of  privilege  ;  and  so  far  did 
they  carry  it  at  that  time,  that  it  was  said,  the  privilege  pro- 
tected members  even  in  criminal  actions;  nay,  such  was^  the 
power  of  popular  prejudices  ovei'  weak  mind  ],  that  the  very 
decisions  of  some  of  the  courts  were  tinctured  with  that  doc- 
trine. It  was  undoubtedly  an  abominaSlc  doctrine.  I  thought 
so  then,  and  I  think  so  still:  but,  nevertneless.  it  was  a  po- 
pular doctrine,  and  came  immediately  fiom  those  who  are 
called  the  friends  of  liberty  ;  how  deservedly,  time  will  show. 

16  True  liberty,  in  my  opinion,  can  only  exist  when  jus- 


Chap.  VIII.         PUBLIC  SPKKCHES. 


123 


Ir 


tice  is  equally  administered  to  all ;  to  the  king  and  to  tne  beg 
gar.  Where  is  the  justice  then,  or  where  is  the  law,  that 
protects  a  member  of  parliament,  more  than  any  other  man, 
irom  the  punishment  due  to  his  crimes?  The  laws  of  this  coun- 
try allow  of  no  place,  nor  any  employment,  to  be  m  sanctuary 
for  crimes ;  and  where  I  have  the  honour  to  sit  as  judge,  neither 
royal  favour,  nor  popular  applause,  shall  protect  the  guilty. 
17  I  have  now  only  to  beg  pardon  for  having  employed  so 
much  of  your  lordships'  time  ;  and  T  am  sorry  a  bill,  fraught 
with  so  many  good  consef|uence«i,  has  not  met  with  an  abler 
advocate  :  but  I  doubt  not  your  lordships*  determination  will 
convince  the  world,  that  a  bill,  calculated  to  contribute  so 
much  to  the  equal  distribution  of  justice  as  the  present,  re- 
quired with  your  lordships  but  very  little  support. 

SECTION  V. 

An  Mdress  to  Young  Persons. 

1  INTEND,  in  this  address,  to  show  you  the  importance  of 
beginning  early  to  give  serious  attention  to  your  conduct.  As 
soon  as  you  are  capable  of  reflection,  you  must  perceive  that 
there  is  a  right  and  a  wrong  in  human  actions.  You  see,  that 
those  who  are  born  with  the  same  advantages  of  fortune,  are 
not  all  equally  prosperous  in  the  course  of  life.  While  some 
of  them,  by  w  ise  and  steady  conduct,  attain  distinction  in  the 
world,  and  pass  their  days  with  comfort  and  honour;  others,  of 
the  same  rank,  by  mean  and  vicious  behaviour,  forfeit  the  ad- 
vantages of  their  hii  ill ;  involve  themselves  inmuch misery ;  and 
end  in  being  a  disgrace  to  their  lnends,and  a  burden  on  society. 

2  Early,  then,  may  you  learn,  that  it  is  not  on  the  external 
condition  in  which  you  find  yourselves  placed,  but  on  the  part 
which  you  are  to  act,  that  your  welfare  or  unhappiness,  your 
honour  or  infamy,  depends.  Now,  when  beginning  to  act  that 
part,  r/hat  can  be  of  greater  moment  than  to  regulate  your 
plan  of  conduct  with  the  most  serious  attention,  before  you 
have  yet  committed  any  fatal  or  irretrievahle  errora  ? 

3  If,  instead  of  exerting  reflection  for  this  valuable  purpose, 
yo«  deliver  youreelvep  up,  at  so  critical  a  time,  to  sloth  and 
pleasures  ;  if  you  refuse  to  listen  to  any  counsellor  but  hu- 
mour, or  to  attend  to  any  pursuit  except  that  of  amusement  j  if 
you  allow  yourselves  to  float  loose/ and  careless  on  the  tide^  of 
life,  ready  to  receive  any  direction  which  the  cun^ent  oi 
fashion  may  chnnce  to  give  you ;  what  cm  you  expect  to  follow 
from  such  beginnings  ? 

4  Wliile  so  many  around  you  are  undergoing  the  sad  con- 
sequences of  a  like  indiscretion,  for  what  reason  shall  not  those 


Si$ 


H  m 


1 


.-.j^.. 


..A, 


ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I 

ronsequences  extend  to  you  1  Shall  you  attain  success  with- 
out that  preparation,  and  escape  danirerp  without  that  precau- 
tion, which  are  required  of  others  ?  Shall  happiness  prow  up 
to  you,  of  its  own  accord,  and  solicit  your  acceptance,  when, 
to  the  rest  of  mankind,  it  is  the  fruit  of  long  cultivation,  and 
the  acquisition  of  lahour  and  care  ? 

5  Deceive  not  yourselves  with  those  arrojrnnt  hopes.-What- 
ever  be  your  rank.  Providence  will  not,  for  your  sake,  reverse 
its  established  order.  The  Author  of  your  being  hath  enjoin- 
ed you  to  "take  heed  to  your  ways;  to  ponder  the  paths  of  youi 
feet;  to  remember  your  Creator  in  the  days  of  your  youth." 

6  He  hath  decreed,  that  they  only  "  who  seek  after  wisdom, 
shall  find  it ;  that  fools  shall  be  afflicted,  because  of  their 
transgressions  ;  and  that  whoever  refnseth  instruction,  shall 
destroy  his  own  soul."  By  listening  to  these  admonitions,  and 
tempering  the  vivacity  of  youth  with  a  proper  mixture  of  seri- 
ous thought,  you  may  ensure  cheerfulness  for  the  rest  of  life; 
hut  by  delivering  yourseWes  up  at  present  to  giddiness  and 
levity,  you  lay  the  foundation  of  lasting  heaviness  o   heaii;. 

7  When  you  look  fonvard  to  those  plans  of  life,  which 
either  your  circumstances  have  suggested,  or  your  friends  have 
proposed,  you  will  not  hesitate  to  acknowledge,  that  in  order 
to  pursue  them  with  advantage,  some  previous  discipline  is  re- 
quisite. Be  assured,  that  whatever  is  to  be  your  profession, 
no  education  is  more  necessary  to  your  success,  than  the  ac- 
quirement of  virtuous  dispositions  and  habits.  This  is  the  uni- 
versal preparation  for  every  character,  and  every  station  in  life. 

8  Bad  as  the  world  is,  respect  is  always  pa,id  to  virtue.  In 
the  usual  course  of  human  affairs,  it  will  be  found ,^-that  a  plain 
understanding,  joined  with  acknowledged  worth,  contributes 
more  to  prosperity,  than  the  brightest  p.  rts  witlicut  probity  or 
honour.  Whether  science  or  business,  or  public  life,  be  your 
aim,  virtue  still  enters  for  a  principal  share,  into  all  those 
great  departments  of  society.  It  is  connected  with  eminence 
in  every  liberal  art ;  with  reputation,  in  every  branch  of  fair 
and  useful  business ;  with  distinction,  in  every  public  station. 

9  The  vigour  which  it  gives  the  miiid^  and  the  weight  which 
it  adds  to  character;  the  generous  sentiments  which  it  breathes; 
the  undaunted  spirit  which  it  inspires  ;  the  ardour  of  diligence 
wi^ich  it  quickens  ;  the  freedom  which  it  procures  from  per- 
nicious and  dishonourable  avocations  ;  are  the  foundaUjl&s  of 
all  that  is  highly  honourable,  or  greatly  successful  an^f^Ag  men. 

10  Whatever  ornamental  or  engaging  endowments*  you  now 
possess,  virtue  is  a  necessary  requisite,  in  order  to  their  shin- 
ing with  proper  lustre.    Feeble  are  the  attractions  of  the  fair- 


Chap.  VIII.        PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 


125 


Wth. 
pcnii- 

[hen, 
and 

^hat- 
[erse 
join- 

|th." 
lorn. 


est  form,  if  it  lie  suspected  that  nothingf  within  corresponds  to 
the  pleasing  appearance  without.  Short  are  the  triumphs  of 
wit,  when  it  is  supposed  to  he  the  vehicle  of  malice. 

11  By  whatever  means  you  may  at  first  attract  the  atten- 
tion, you  can  hold  the  esteem,  and  secure  the  hearts  of  othere, 
only  by  amiable  dispositions,  and  the  accomplishments  of  the 
mind.  These  are  the  qualilies  whose  influence  will  last,  when 
the  lustre  of  all  that  once  sparkled  and  dazzled  has  passed 
away. 

12  Let  not  then  the  season  of  youth  be  barren  of  improve- 
ments, so  essential  to  yoivr  future  felicity  and  honour.  Now 
ia  the  seed-time  of  life  ;  and  according  to  "  what  you  sow, 
you  shall  reap."  Your  character  i^  now,  under  Divine  As- 
sistance, of  your  own  forming ;  your  fate  is  in  some  measure, 
put  into  your  own  hands. 

13  Your  nature  is  as  yet  pliant  and  soft.  Habits  have  not 
established  their  dominion  Prejudices  have  not  pre-occupied 
your  understanding.  The  world  has  not  had  time  to  contract 
and  debase  your  affections.  All  your  powers  are  more  vigorous, 
disembarrassed,  and  free,  than  they  will  be  at  any  future  period. 

14  Whatever  impulse  you  now  give  to  your  desires  and 
passions,  the  direction  islikely  to  continue.  It  will  form  the 
?hannel  in  which  your  life  is  to  run  ;  nay,  it  may  determine 
its  everlasting  issue.  Consi<ler  then  the  employment  of  this 
important  period,  as  the  hityhest  trust  which  shall  ever  be  com-' 
mitted  to  you  ;  as  in  a  great  measure,  decisive  of  your  happi- 
ness, in  time,  and  in  eternity. 

15  As  in  the  succession  of  the  seasons,  each,  by  the  invari- 
able laws  of  nature,  affects  the  productions  of  what  is  next  in 
course  ;  so,  in  human  life,  every  period  of  our  age,  accordini^ 
as  it  is  well  or  ill  spent,  influences  the  happiness  of  that  which 
is  to  follow.  Virtuous  youth  gradually  brings  for^vard  ac- 
complished and  flourishing  manhood ;  and  such  manhood, 
passes  of  itself,  without  uneasiness,  into  respectable  and  tran- 
quil old  age. 

16  But  when  nature  is  turned  out  of  its  regular  course,  dis- 
order lakes  place  in  the  moral,  just  as  in  the  vegetable  world. 
If  the  spring  put  forth  no  blossoms,  in  summer  there  will  he 
no  beauty,  and  in  autumn^  no  fruit :  so,  if  yoi^th  be  trifled 
away  without  improvement,  manhood  will  probably  be  con- 
temptible, and  old  age  miserable.  If  the  beginning-*  of  life 
have  befe'n  "  vanity,"  its  latter  end  can  scarcely  be  any  other 
than  "  vexation  of  spirit." 

17  I  shall  finisii  this  address,  with  calling  your  attentiojri  to 
that  dependence  on  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  which,  amidst  all 

L2 


M^M 


'i^- 

§' 


I  ^j 


126 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I 


ycur  endeavours  afler  improvement,  you  ought  continually  to 
preserve.  It  is  too  common  with  the  young,  even  when  they 
resolve  to  tread  the  path  of  virtue  and  honour,  to  set  out  with 
presumptuous  confidence  in  themselves. 

18  Trusting  to  their  own  ahilities  for  carrying  them  success- 
fully through  life,  they  are  careless  of  applying  to  God,  or  of 
deriving  any  assistance  from  what  they  are  apt  to  reckon  the 
gloomy  discipline  of  religion.  Alas !  how  little  do  they  know 
the  dangers  which  await  them?  Neither  human  wisdom,  nor 
human  virtue,  unsupported  by  religion,  is  equal  to  the  trying 
situations  which  often  occur  in  life. 

19  By  the  shock  of  temptation,  how  frequently  have  the 
most  virtuous  intentions  been  overthrown?  Under  the  pressure 
of  disaster,  how  often  has  the  greatest  constancy  sunk?  *<£very 
good,  and  every  perfect  gift,  is  from  above."  Wisdom  and 
virtue,  as  well  as  "riches  and  honour,  come  from  God."  Des- 
titute of  his  favour^  y^u  are  in  no  better  situation,  with  all 
your  boasted  abilities,  than  orphans  left  to  wander  in  a  track- 
less desert,  without  any  guide  to  Conduct  them,  or  any  shelter 
to  cover  them  from  the  gathering  storm. 

20  Correct,  then,  this  ill-founded  arrogance.  Expect  not, 
that  your  happiness  can  be  independent  of  Him  who  made  you. 
By  faith  and  repentance,  apply  to  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 
By  piety  and  prayer  seek  the  protection  of  the  God  of  heaven. 

21  I  conclude  with  the  solemn  words,  in  which  a  great 
prince  delivered  his  dying  charge  to  his  son  ;  words,  which 
every  young  person  ought  to  consider  as  addressed  to  himself, 
and  to  engrave  deeply  on  his  heart :  "  Solomon,  my  son,  know 
thou  the  God  of  thy  fathers  ;  and  serve  him  with  a  perfect 
heart,  and  with  a  willing  mind.  For  the  lord  searcheth  all 
hearts,  and  understandeth  all  the  imaginations  of  the  thoughts. 
If  thou  seek  him,  he  will  be  found  of  thee ;  but  if  thou  forsake 
him,  he  will  cast  thee  off  forever."  blair. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 

SECTION  I.  "'  .. 

Earthquake  at  Calabria,  in  the  year  1638.    '^:    '  -^ 

AN  account  of  this  dreadful  earthquake,  is  given  by  the 
celebrated  father  Kircher.  It  happened  whilst  he  was  on  his 
journey  to  visit  mount  ^tna,  and  the  rest  of  the  wonders  thsA 
^  towards  the  South  of  Italy.     Kircher  is  considered,  by 


in*' 


Chap.  IX.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


to 
ith 


fSS' 

of 


^:, 


J-i 


scholars,  as  one  of  the  greatest  prodigies  of  learning.  "  Having 
hired  a  boat,  in  company  with  four  more,  (two  friars  of  the 
order  of  St.  Francis,  and  two  seculars,)  we  launched  from  the 
harbour  of  Messina,  in  Sicily ;  and  arrived,  the  same  day, 
at  the  promontory  of  Pelorus.  Our  deHtination  was  for  the 
city  of  Euphaemia,  in  Calabria,  where  we  had  some  business 
to  transact,  and  where  we  designed  to  tarry  for  some  time. 

2  "  However,  Providence  seemed  willing  to  cross  our  de- 
sign; for  we  were  obliged  to  continue  three  days  at  Pelonis, 
on  account  of  the  weather;  and  though  we  often  put  out  to 
sea,  yet  were  as  often  driven  back.  4t  length,  wearied  with 
the  delay,  we  resolved  to  prosecute  our  voyage ;  and,  although 
the  sea  seemed  more  than  usually  agitated,  we  ventured  forwanl. 

3  **  The  gulf  of  Charybdis,  which  we  approached,  seemed 
whirled  round  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  form  a  vast  hollow, 
verging  to  a  point  in  the  centre.  Proceeding  onward,  and 
turning  my  eyes  to  ^tna,  I  saw  it  cast  forth  large  volumes  of 
smoke,  of  mountainous  sizes,  which  entirely  covered  the 
island,  and  blotted  out  the  very  shores  from  my  view.  This, 
together  with  the  dreadful  noise,  and  the  sulphurous  stench 
which  was  strongly  perceived,  filled  me  with  apprehensions, 
that  some  more  dreadful  calamity  was  impending. 

4  "  The  sea  itself  seemed  to  wear  a  very  unusual  appear- 
ance :  they  who  have  seen  a  lake  in  a  violent  shower  of  rain, 
covered  all  over  with  bubbles,  will  conceive  some  idea  of  its 
agitations.  My  surprise  was  still  increased,  by  the  calmness 
and  serenity  of  the  weather  ;  not  a  breeze,  not  a  cloud,  which 
might  be  supposed  to  put  all  nature  thus  into  motion.  I  there- 
fore warned  my  companions,  that  an  earthquake  was  approach- 
ing ;  and,  after  some  time,  making  for  the  shore  with  ,all 
possible  diligence,  we  landed  at  Tropaea,  happy  and  thankful 
for  having  escaped  the  threatening  dangers  of  the  sea. 

6  "  But  our  triumphs  at  land  were  of  short  duration  ;  for 
we  had  scarcely  arrived  at  the  Jesuits'  College,  in  that  city, 
when  our  ears  were  stunned  with  a  horrid  sound,  resembling 
that  of  an  infinite  number  of  chariots,  driven  fiercely  fonvard ;, 
the  wHeels  rattling,  and  the  thongs  cracking.  Soon  after  this, 
a  most  dreadful  earthquake  ensued ;  the  whole  tract  upon  which 
we  stood  seemed  to  vibrate,  as  if  we  were  in  the  scale  of  a  ba- 
lance that  continued  wavering.  This  motion,  however,  soon 
f'ew  more  violent ;  and  being  no  lonirer  able  to-  keep  my  legs, 
was  thrown  prostrate  upon  the  ijround.  In  the  mean  time, 
the  universal  ruin  round  rae  redou!)led  my  amazement. 

6  "  The  crash  of  falling  houses,  the  tottering  of  towers,  and 
the  groans  of  ^      dying*  aU  contributed  to  raise  my  terror 


I'  .^1 


:  1 

1 

r,..,':, 

Ikf. 

i 

'I 


m 


..       *      '.  .      bVA 


128 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  1. 


and  despair.  On  every  side  of  me,  1  saiv  notiiing  but  a  scene 
of  ruin  ;  and  danger  tln^eatening  wherever  I  should  i\y,  \ 
recommended  myself  to  God,  as  my  last  great  refuge. 

7  "  At  that  hour,  O  how  vain  was  every  sublunary  happj. 
/less !  Wealth,  honour,  empire,  wisdom,  all  mere  useless 
^ounds,  and  as  empty  as  the  bubbles  of  the  deep  !  Just  stand- 
ing on  the  thresliold  of  eternity,  nothing  but  God  was  my  plea- 
sure ;  and  the  nearer  I  approached,  I  only  loved  him  the  more. 

8  "  After  some  time,  however,  finding  tliat  I  remained  un- 
hmt,  amidst  the  general  concussion,  i  resolved  to  veikture  for 
safety  ;  and  running  as  fast  as  I  co!jid,  I  readied  the  shore, 
but  aJmost  terrified  out  of  my  reason.  I  did  not  search  long 
here,  till  I  found  the  boat  Ui  which  1  had  latuled,  and  my 
companions  also,  whose  terrors  were  even  greater  than  mine. 
Our  meeting  was  not  of  that  kind,  where  every  one  is  desirous 
of  telling  his  own  happy  escape ;  it  was  all  silence,  and  a 
gloomy  dread  of  impending:  terrors. 

9  **  Leaving  this  seat  of  desolation,  we  prosecuted  our  voy- 
age along  the  coast ;  and  the  next  day  came  to  Rochetta, 
where  we  landed  although  the  earth  still  continued  in  violent 
agitations.  But  we  had  scarcely  arrived  at  our  inn,  when  we 
were  once  more  obliged  to  return  to  the  boat ;  and,  in  about 
half  an  hour,  we  saw  the  greater  part  of  the  town,  and  the 
inn  at  which  we  had  put  up,  dashed  to  the  ground,  and  burying 
the  inhabitants  beneath  the  ruins. 

10  "  In  this  maimer,  proceeding  onward  in  our  little  ves- 
sel, finding  no  safetv  at  land,  and  yet,  fr  )m  the  smallness  of 
our  boat,  having  but  a  very  dangerous  continuance  at  sea,  we 
at  length  landed  at  I<opizium,  a  castle  midway  between  Tro- 
psea  and  Euphaemia,  the  city  to  which,  as  I  said  before,  we 
were  bound.  Here,  wherever  I  turned  my  eyes,  nothing 
but  scenes  of  ruin  and  horror  appeared  ;  to  vims  and  castles 
levelled  to  the  ground  ;  Stromboli,  though  at  sixty  miles  dis- 
tance, belching  forth  flames  in  an  unusual  manner,  and  with 
a  noise  which  I  could  distinctly  hear# 

11  "  But  my  attention  was  quickly  turned  from  more  re- 
mote, to  contiguous  danger.  The  rumbling  sound  of  an  ap- 
proaching eainhquak^,  which  we  by  this  time  were  grown 
acquainted  with,  alarmed  us  for  the  consequences ;  it  every 
moment  seemed  to  grow  louder,  and  to  approach  nearer. 
The  place  on  which  we  stood  now  began  to  shake  most  dread- 
fully: so  that  being  unable  to  stand,  my  companions  and  I. 
caught  hold  of  whatever  shrub  grew  next  to  us,  and  support* 
ed  ourselves  in  that  manner. 

12  "After  some  time,  this  violent  paK»xysm  ceasing,  we 


^m--'' 


Chap.  IX.       PROMISCITOUS  PIECES. 


120 


vgain  stood  up,  in  order  to  prosecute  our  voyage  to  Eiiphac- 
mia,  which  lay  within  sight.  In  the  mean  time,  while  wo 
were  preparini^  for  this  purpose,  I  turned  my  eyes  towards  tlie 
city,  but  could  see  only  a  frightful  dark  cloud,  that  seemed  to 
rest  upon  the  place.  This  the  more  surprised  us,  as  the 
weather  was  so  very  serene. 

13  "  We  waited,  therefore,  till  the  cloud  had  passed  away: 
then  turning  to  look  for  the  city,  it  was  totally  sunk.  Won* 
derfulto  tell !  nothing  but  a  dismal  and  putrid  lake  was  seen 
where  it  stood.  We  looked  about  to  find  some  one  that  could 
tell  us  of  its  sad  catastrophe,  but  could  see  no  person.  All  was 
become  a  melancholy  solitude  ;  a  scene  of  hideous  desolation. 

14  *^  Thus  proceeding  pensively  along,  in  quest  of  some 
human  being  tiiat  could  give  us  a  little  information,  we  at 
length  saw  a  boy  sitting  by  the  shore,  and  appearing  stupified 
with  terror.  Of  him,  therefore,  we  enquired  concerning  tlie 
fate  of  the  city ;  but  he  could  not  be  prevailed  on  to  give  us 
an  answer. 

15  *'  We  entreated  him,  with  every  expression  of  tenderness 
and  pity,  to  tell  us ;  but  his  senses  were  quite  wrapt  up  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  danger  he  had  escaped.  We  offered 
him  some  victuals,  but  he  seemed  to  loath  the  sight.  We  still 
persisted  in  our  offices  of  kindness ;  but  he  only  pointed  to 
the  place  of  the  city,  like  one  out  of  his  senses  ;  and  then, 
running  up  into  the  woods,  was  never  heard  of  afler.  Such 
was  the  fate  of  the  city  of  Euphaemia. 

16  **  As  we  continued  our  melancholy  course  along  the 
shore,  the  whole  coast,  for  the  space  of  two  hundred  miles, 
presented  nothing  but  the  remains  of  cities ;  and  men  scatter- 
ed, without  a  habitation,  over  the  fields.  Proceeding  thus 
along,  we  at  length  ended  our  distressful  voyage  by  arriving 
at  Naples,  after  having  escaped  a  thousand  dangers  both  at 
sea  and  land.''  goldsmith. 

SECTION  II. 
Letter  from  Pliny  to  Geminius. 

DO  we  not  sometimes  observe  a  sort  of  people,  who, 
though  they  are  themselves  under  the  abject  dominion  of  every 
vice,  show  a  kind  of  malicious  resentment  against  the  errors 
of  others,  and  are  most  severe  upon  those  whom  they  most 
resemble?  yet,  surely  a  lenity  of  disposition,  even  in  persons 
who  have  the  least  occasion  for  clemency  themselves,  is  of  all 
virtues  the  most  becoming. 

2  The  highest  of  all  characters,  in  v  estimation,  is  his, 
who  is  as  ready  to  pardon  the  errors  of  ni  find,  as  if  he  were 
every  day  guilty  of  some  himself;  and,  av  ihe  same  time,  as 


:^ 


2  '» 


'51 


c:;k<<?t^ 


130 


THE  ENGLISfl  READER.  Part  f 


V 


cautious  of  committing  a  fault,  as  if  he  never  for^axe  ono.. 
it  is  a  rule,  tiicn,  which  we  Hhuuld,  upon  ail  occasions,  both 
private^  and  public,  most  religiously  observe  :  *'  to  l)e  inexo 
ratle  to  our  own  faiimgs,  while  we  treat  those  oftiierest  of  the 
world  with  tenderness ;  not  excepting  even  such  as  forgive 
none  but  themselves." 

3  I  shall,  perhaps,  be  asked,  who  it  is  that  has  given  occa- 
sion to  these  reflections.  Know  then  that  a  certain  persor. 
lately — but  of  that  when  we  meet — thougli,  upon  second 
thoughts,  not  even  then ;  lest,  whilst  I  condemn  and  expose: 
his  conduct,  I  shall  act  counter  to  that  maxim  I  particularly 
recommend.  Whoever,  therefore,  and  wliatever  he  is,  shall 
remain  in  silence :  for  though  there  mny  be  some  use,  per- 
haps, in  setting  a  mark  upon  the  man,  for  the  sake  of  exam- 
ple, there  will  be  more,  however,  in  sparing  him  for  the  sake 
of  humanity.     Farewtil.  melmoth's  puny. 

SFX'TION  Ilf. 
Latter  from  Pliny  to  Marcellinus  on  the  death  of  an 

amiable  younf*;  Woman, 

1  WRITE  this  under  the  utmost  oppression  of  sorrow  :  the 
youngest  daughter  of  my  friend  Fundanus,  is  dead  !  Never, 
surely,  was  there  a  more  agreeable,  and  more  amiable  young 
person;  or  one  who  better  deserved  to  have  enjoyed  a  long,  I 
had  almost  said,  an  immortal  life  !  She  had  all  the  wisdom  of 
age,  and  discretion  of  a  matron,  joined  with  youthful  sweet- 
ness and  virgin  modesty. 

2  With  what  an  engajring  fondness  did  she  behave  to  her 
father!  How  kindly  and  respectfully  receive  his  friends  !  How 
affectionately  treat  all  those  who,  in  their  respective  offices, 
had  the  care  and  education  of  her!  She  employed  much  of 
her  time  in  reading,  in  which  she  discovered  great  strength  of 
judgmer.'i ;  she  indulged  herself  in  few  diversions,  and  those 
with  much  caution.  With  what  forbearance,  with  what  pa- 
tience, with  what  couraiye  did  she  endure  her  last  illness  ! 

3  She  complied  with  all  the  directions  of  her  physicians ; 
she  encouraged  her  sister,  and  her  father;  and,  when  all  her 
strength  of  body  was  exhausted,  supported  herself  by  the  sin- 
gle vigour  of  her  mind.  That,  indeed,  continued,  even  to 
her  last  moments,  unbroken  by  the  pain  of  a  long  illness,  or 
the  terrors  of  approaching  death ;  and  it  is  a  reflection  which 
makes  the  loss  of  her  so  much  the  more  to  be  lamented.  A 
toss  inflnitely  severe!  and  more  severe  by  the  particular  con- 
juncture in  which  it  happened  !  '    i 

4  She  was  contracted  to  a  most  worthy  youth ;  the  wed- 
ding day  was  fixed,  and  we  were  all  invited.     How  sad  a 


<jiiAr.  IX.         PUOMISClJOrS  IMKCES. 


131 


change,  from  the  hiirlit'st  joy  to  tlif  dcrprMt  sorrow!  Hotv 
t!hall  I  expnsH  tin;  \vouii«l  tliat  puMred  my  lirart,  wlu'ii  I 
neanl  Fundanus  liiiiiscir,  (ay  tjrier  is  ever  findiiiir  outrircuni- 
staiices  to  aiifgravate  its  aillictions,)  ordtM'iug  the  money  he  had 
designed  to  lay  out  upon  ch)tiies  and  jeweln  for  her  mar- 
riage, to  he  en>ph)yed  in  myrrli  and  spices  for  her  luneral! 

6  He  is  a  man  of  i;reat  learuini;  and  good  sense,  ulio  hn«< 
applied  himseli',  from  his  earhesl  youtli,  to  tlie  nohh^st  and 
most  elevated  studies:  hut  all  the  maxims  of  fortitude  uliicii 
he  has  received  from  hooi^s,  or  advanced  iiiniself,  he  now  ah- 
solutely  rejects;  and  every  other  virtue  ol'  tiis  iu-art  ^ives  place 
to  all  a  parent's  tenderness.  We  shall  excui-ie,  w «  shall  even 
approve  his  sorrows  when  we  consider  wliat  lie  has  lost.  He 
lias  lost  a  daughter,  who  resendtled  h m  in  his  manners, as  well 
as  his  person;  and  exactly  coj?ied  out  all  l.cj  lather. 

6  it  his  friend  Marcellinus  shall  think  proper  to  write  to 
him,  upon  the  suhject  of  so  reasonahle  a  giiel,  let  nu'  remind 
him  not  to  use  the  rougher  arguments  of  c(Mis.>lution,  and 
such  as  seem  to  carry  a  sort  of  rej)roof  with  them  ;  hut  those 
of  kind  and  sympathizing  Immanity. 

7  Time  will  render  him  more  open  to  the  dictates  of  r<  ason. 
for  as  a  fresh  wound  shrinks  hack  from  tlie  hand  of  tin  8ur-« 
geon,  buthy  degrees  submits  to,  and  even  reipiin  ii  the  •  cans 
ot  its  cure  ;  so  a  mind,  under  the  Hrst  impressions  o  n  mis- 
fortune, shuns  and  rejects  all  arguments  of  consolation  ;  but 
at  length,  if  applied  with  tenderness,  cahnly  and  uiliijigly 
acquiesces  in  them.     Farewell.  Melmotu's  Plinv. 

SKCTION  IV. 

On  Disr.reiion, 

1  HAVE  often  thouglit,  if  the  minds  of  men  were  laid  open, 
we  should  see  but  little  crHtterence  between  that  of  a  wise  man, 
and  that  of  a  fool.  There  are  infinit  reveries,  numberless 
extravagances,  and  a  succession  of  vanities,  which  pass 
through  both.  The  great  difference  is,  that  the  hist  knows 
how  to  pick  and  cull  his  thoughts  for  conversation,  by  sup- 
pressing some,  and  communicating  othcrt;  whereas  ti.e  other 
lets  them  !ill  ind'^ferently  <iy  out  in  wojds.  This  sort  of  dis- 
cretion, however,  has  no  place  in  pri\  ate  conversation  be- 
tween intimate  friends.  v>n  such  occasions,  the  nicest  men 
very  often  talk  like  the  weakest ;  for,  inaeed,  talkuig  with  ^ 
friend  is  noth'-'tr  eho  than  thi:'king  aloud. 

2  Tully  has  therefore  very  justly  exposed  a  precept,  deliver- 
ed by  some  ancient  writers,  That  a  man  should  live  with  his 
enemy  in  such^a  manner,  as  might  leave  him  loom  to  become 
Hu  fr^'ort/^  •  «»r»J      '*U  jjig  friend  in  such  •»  •" '*        '^ 


W 


^* 


i 


132 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  f. 


lie  became  his  enemy,  it  should  not  be  in  his  power  to  hurt 
him.  The  first  part  of  this  rule,  which  regards  our  behaviour 
towards  an  enemy,  is  indeed  very  reasonable,  as  well  as  very 
prudential ;  but  the  latter  part  of  it,  which  regards  our  be- 
haviour towards  a  friend,  savours  more  of  cunning  than  of  dis- 
cretion ;  and  would  cut  a  man  off  from  the  greatest  pleasures  of 
life,  which  are  the  freedoms  of  conversation  with  abosom  friend. 
Besides  that,  when  a  friend  is  turned  into  an  enemy,  the  world 
is  just  enough  to  accuse  the  perfidiousness  of  the  friend,  ra- 
ther t  an  the  indiscretion  of  the  person  who  confided  in  him. 

3  Discretion  does  not  only  show  itself  in  words,  but  in  all 
the  circumstances  of  action ;  and  is  like  an  under-agent  of 
Providence,  to  guide  and  direct  us  in  the  ordinary  concerns 
of  life.  There  are  many  more  shining  qualities  in  the  mind 
of  man,  but  there  is  none  so  useful  as  discretion.  It  is  this, 
indeed,  which  gives  a  value  to  all  the  rest ;  which  sets  them 
at  work  in  their  proper  times  and  places  ;  and  turns  them  to 
the  advantage  of  the  person  who  is  possessed  of  them.  With- 
out it,  learning  is  pedantry,  and  wit  impertinence  ;  virtue  it- 
self looks  like  weakness  ;  the  best  parts  only  qualify  a  man  to 
be  more  spiightly  in  errors,  and  active  to  his  own  prejudice, 

4  Discretion  does  not  only  make  a  man  the  master  of  hii 
own  parts,  but  of  other  men's.  The  discreet  man  finds  out 
the  talents  of  those  he  converses  with,  and  knows  how  to  apply 
them  to  proper  uses.  Accordingly,  if  we  look  into  particular 
communities  and  divisions  of  men,  we  ma)'^  observe,  that  it  13 
the  discreet  man,  not  the  witty,  nor  the  learned,  nor  the  brave, 
who  guides  the  convei*sation,  and  gives  measures  to  society. 
A  mai:  with  great  talents,  but  void  of  discretion,  is  like  Po- 
Ij-phem  IS  in  the  fable,  strong  and  blind  ;  endued  with  an  ir- 
resistible force,  which,  for  want  of  sis^ht,  is  of  no  use  to  him. 

5  Though  a  man  has  all  other  perfections,  yet  if  he  wants 
discretion,  he  will  be  of  no  great  consequence  in  the  world  ; 
on  the  contrary,  if  he  has  this  single  talent  in  perfection,  and 
l>nt  a  common  shave  of  othei'S,  he  may  do  what  he  pleases  in 
his  particular  station  of  life. 

6  At  the  same  time  that  I  think  discretion  the  most  useftil 
talent  a  man  can  be  master  of,  I  look  upon  cunning  to  be  the 
accomplishment  of  little,  mean,  ungenerous  minds.  Discre« 
tlon  points  out  the  noblest  ends  to  us,  and  pursues  the  most 
proper  and  laudable  methods  of  attaining  (hem  cunning  has 
only  pr'vnte,  selfish  aims,  and  sticks  at  nothing  which  may 
make  them  succeed.  ^4,^ 

7  .  iscretion  has  large  and  extended  views ;  and,  like  a " 
well-iormed  eye,  commands  a  wiiole  horizon :  cunning  is  a 


Chap.  IX.       PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


433 


kind  of  short-sightedness,  that  discovers  the  minutest  objects 
which  are  near  at  hand,  but  is  not  able  to  discern  things  at  9 
distance.  Discretion,  the  more  it  is  discovered,  gives  a 
greater  authority  to  the  person  who  possesses  it :  cuunin^r* 
when  it  is  once  detected,  loses  its  force,  and  makes  a  man 
incapable  of  bringing  about  even  those  events  which  lie  might 
have  done,  had  he  passed  only  for  a  plain  man. 

8  Discretion  is  the  perfection  of  reason,  and  a  guide  to  us 
in  all  the  duties  of  life :  cunnir>q:  is  a  kind  of  instinct,  *'  t 
only  looks  out  after  our  immediate  interest  and  welfare.  Dis- 
cretion is  only  found  in  men  of  strong  sense  and  good  un- 
derstandings:  cunning  is  often  to  be  met  with  in  brutes  them- 
selves ;  and  in  peraons  who  are  but  the  fewest  removes  from 
them.  In  short,  cunning  is  only  the  mimic  of  discretion  ; 
and  it  may  pass  upon  weak  men,  in  the  same  manner  as  viva- 
city is  often  mistadcen  for  wit,  and  gravity  for  wisdom. 

9  The  cast  of  mind  which  is  natural  to  a  discreet  m^n, 
makes  him  look  forward  into  futurity,  and  consider  what  will 
he  his  condition  millions  of  ages  hence,  as  well  as  what  it  is 
at  jiresent.  He  knows  that  the  misery  or  happiness  which 
is  reserved  for  him  in  another  world,  loses  nothing  of  its  real- 
ity by  being  placed  at  so  great  a  distance  from  him.  The 
objects  do  not  appear  little  to  him  because  they  are  remote. 
Ke  considers,  that  those  pleasures  and  pains  which  lie  hid  in 
eternity,  approach  nearer  to  him  every  moment;  and  willl;.'. 
present  with  him  in  their  full  weight  and  measure,  as  mucli 
as  those  pains  and  pleasures  which  he  feels  at  this  very  in- 
stant. For  this  reason,  he  is  careful  to  secure  to  himself  thnt 
which  is  the  proper  happiness  of  his  nature,  and  the  ultimate 
design  of  his  being.  *«.  -vt^ 

10  He  carries  his  thoughts  to  the  end  of  every  action,  and 
considers  the  most  distant,  as  well  as  the  most  immediate  ef- 
fects of  it.  He  supersedes  every  little  prospect  of  gain  and 
advantage  which  offers  itself  here,  if  he  does  not  find  it  con- 
sistent with  his  views  of  an  hereafter.  In  a  word,  his  hopes 
are  full  of  immortality ;  his  schemes  are  large  and  glorious; 
and  his  conduct  suitable  to  one  who  knows  his  true  interest, 
and  how  to  pursue  it  by  proper  methods.  addisoiN. 

SECTION  V. 
On  the  Government  of  our  Thoughts. 
A  MULTITUDE  of  cases  occur,  in  which  we  are  no  less 
accountable  for  what  we  thi»\k,  than  for  what  we  do.  As,  first, 
when  the  introduction  of  any  train  of  thought  depends  upoji 
ourselves,  and  is  our  voluntary  act,  by  turning  our  attentiofi 
towards  such  objects,  awakening  such  passions,  or  encjaging  ia 

M 


>■  '■"  -  -   »  >■    :-  u. 
''-  '  '■'  /".t  ■  ^-.^ 


134 


THE  ENGLISH  READER 


Part  f. 


' 


8uch  employments,  as  we  know  must  give  a  peculiar  deternifu- 
ation  to  our  thoughts.  Next,  when  thoughtis,  by  whatever  ac- 
cident they  may  have  been  originally  auggested,  are  indulgeil 
with  deliberation  and  complacency. 

2  Though  the  mind  has  been  passive  in  their  reception,  and, 
therefore,  free  from  blame ;  yet,  if  it  be  active  in  their  continu- 
ance, the  guilt  becomes  its  own.  They  may  have  intruded  at 
6rst,  like  unbidden  guests;  but  if,  when  entered,  they  aie 
made  welcome,  and  kindly  entertained,  the  case  is  the  same 
as  if  they  had  been  invited  from  the  beginning.        sJ 

3  If  we  are  thus  accountable  to  God  for  thoughls/eithev 
voluntarily  introduced,  or  deliberately  indulged,  we  are  no  less 
so,  ill  the  last  place,  for  those  which  find  admittance  into  our 
hearts  from  supine  negligence,  from  total  relaxation  of  attention, 
from  allowing  our  imagination  to  rove  with  entire  license, 
"like  the  eves  of  the  fool,  towards  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

•  4  Our  minds  are,  in  this  case,  thrown  open  to  folly  and  van- 
ity. They  are  prostituted  to  every  evil  thing  which  pleases  to 
take  possession.  The  consequences  must  all  be  charged  to  our 
account;  and  in  vain  we  plead  excuse  from  human  infirmity. 
Hence  it  appears,  that  the  great  object  at  which  we  are  to  aim 
in  governing  our  thoughts,  is,  to  take  the  most  efiectual  mea- 
sures for  preventing  the  introduction  of  such  as  are  sinful;  and 
for  hastening  their  expulsion,  if  they  shall  have  introduced 
themselves  without  consent  of  the  will.  4*^ 

5  But  when  we  descend  into  our  breasts,  anc|examine  how 
far  we  have  studied  to  keep  this  object  in  view,  who  can  tell 
**  how  oft  he  hath  offended  V^  In  no  article  of  religion  or  mo- 
rals are  men  more  culpably  remiss,  than  in  the  unrestrained 
indulgence  they  give  to  fancy ;  and  that,  too,  for  the  most  part, 
without  remorse.  Since  the  time  that  reason  began  to  exert 
her  powers,  thought,  during  our  waking  hours,  has  been  ac- 
tive in  every  breast,  without  a  moment's  suspension  or  pause. 

6  The  current  of  ideas  has  been  always  flowing.  The 
wheels  of  the  spiritual  engine  have  circulated  with  perpetual 
motion.  Let  me  ask,  what  has  been  the  fruit  of  this  incessant 
activity,  with  the  greater  part  of  mankind?  Of  the  innumerable 
hours  that  have  been  employed  in  thought,  how  few  are 
m?irkcd  with  any  permanent  or  useful  efl*ect?  How  many  have 
either  passed  away  in  idle  dreams;  or  have  been  abandoned 
to  anxious  discontented  musings,  to  unsocial  and  malignant 
passions,  or  to  irregular  and  criminal  desires? 

7  Had  I  power  to  lay  open  that  storehouse  of  iniquity,  which 
the  hearts  of  too  many  conceal ;  could  I  draw  out  and  read  to 
them  a  list  of  all  the  imaginations  they  have  devised,  and  all  the 


Chap.  IX.       PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


135 


passions  they  have  indulged  in  secret ;  what  a  picture  of  men 
should  I  present  to  themselves  !  What  crimes  would  they  ap- 
pear to  have  perpetrated  in  secrecy,  which,  to  their  most  in- 
timate companions,  they  dui'st  not  reveal ! 

8  Even  when  men  imagine  their  tiioughtsto  be  innocently 
employed,  they  too  commonly  suffer  them  to  run  out  into  ex- 
travagant imaginations,  and  chimerical  plans  of  what  they 
would  wish  to  attain,  or  choose  to  be,  if  they  could  frame  the 
course  of  things  according  to  their  desire.  Though  such  em- 
ployments of  fancy  come  not  under  the  same  description  with 
those  which  are  plainly  criminal,  yet  wholly  unblamable  they 
seldom  are.  Besides  the  waste  of  time  which  they  occasion, 
and  the  misapplication  which  they  indicate  of  those  intellectual 
powers  that  were  given  to  us  for  much  nobler  purposes,  such 
romantic  speculations  lead  us  always  into  the  neighbourhood 
of  forbidden  regions. 

9  They  place  us  on  dangerous  ground.  They  are  for  the 
most  part  connected  with  some  one  bad  passion ;  and  they  al- 
ways nourish  a  giddy  and  frivolous  turn  of  thought.  They  un- 
fit the  mind  for  applying  with  vigour  to  rational  pursuits,  or 
for  acquiescing  in  sober  plaiiS  of  conduct.  From  that  ideal 
world  in  which  it  allows  itself  to  dwell,  it  returns  to  the  com- 
merce of  men,  unbent  and  relaxed,  sickly  and  tainted,  averee 
to  discharging  the  duties,  and  sometimes  disqualified  even  for 
relishing  the  pleasures,  of  ordinary  life.        '\J 

^  SECTION  VI.         /%s 
On  the  evils  which  flow  from  unrestrained  Passions, 

WHEN  man  revolted  from  his  Maker,  his  passions  rebelled 
against  himself;  and  from  being  originally  the  ministers  of 
reason,  have  become  the  tyrants  of  the  soul. — Hence;  in 
treating  of  tliis  subject,  two  things  may  he  assumed  as  princi- 
ples :  first,  that  tlirough  the  present  weakness  of  the  under- 
standing, our  passions  ai*e  often  directed  towards  improper 
objects ;  and  next,  that  even  when  their  direction  is  just,  and ' 
their  objects  are  innocent,  they  perpetually  tend  to  run  into 
excess;  they  always  hurry  us  towards  their  gratification,  with 
a  blind  and  dangerous  impetuosity,  ^n  tliese  two  p^ints^ 
then,  turns  the  whole  government  of  our  passions :  first,  to 
ascertain  the  proper  objects  of  their  pursuit ;  and  next,  to 
restrsun  them  in  that  pursuit,  when  they  would  caiTy  us  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  reason. 

2  If  there  is  any  passion  which  intrudes  itself  unseasonably 
into  our  mind,  which  darkens  and  troubles  our  judgment,  or 
habitually  discomposes  our  temper ;  which  unfits  us  for  pro- 
perly discharging  the  duties,  or  disqualifies  us  for  cheerfullj 


136 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


enjoying  the  comforts  of  life,  we  may  ceiitainly  conclude  it  to 
have  gained  a  dangerous  ascendant.  The  great  object  which 
we  ought  to  propose  to  ourselves,  is,  to  acquire  a  firm  and 
steadfast  mind,  whicn  the  infatuation  of  passion  shall  not  se- 
duce, nor  its  violence  shake ;  which,  resting  on  fixed  princi- 
ples, shall,  in  the  midst  of  contending  emotions,  remain  free, 
and  master  of  itself;  able  to  listen  calmly  to  the  voice  of  con- 
science, and  prepared  to  obey  its  dictates  without  hesitation. 

3  To  obtain,  if  possible,  such  command  of  passion,  is  om 
of  the  highest  attainments  of  the  rational  nature.  Arguments 
to  show  its  importance  crowd  upon  us  from  every  quarter 
If  there  be  any  fertile  source  of  mischief  to  human  life,  it  is, 
beyond  doubt,  the  misrule  of  passion.  It  is  this  which  poi- 
sons the  enjoyment  of  individuals,  overturns  the  order  of  so- 
ciety, and  strews  the  path  of  life  with  so  many  miseries,  as 
to  render  it  indeed  the  vale  of  tears. 

4  All  those  fifreat  scenes  of  public  calamity,  which  we  be- 
hold with  astonishment  and  horror,  have  originated  from  the 
source  of  violent  passions.  These  have  overspread  the  earth 
with  bloodshed.  These  have  pointed  the  assassin's  dagger, 
and  filled  the  poisoned  bowl.  These,  in  every  age,  have 
furnished  too  copiou|  materials  for  the  orator's  pathetic  decla- 
mation, and  for  the  poet's  tragical  song.  When  from  public 
life  we  descend  to  private  conduct,  though  passion  operates 
not  there  in  so  wide  and  destructive  a  sphere,  we  shall  find  its 
influence  to  be  no  less  baneful. 

5  I  need  not  mention  the  black  and  fierce  passions,  such  as 
envy,  jealousy,  and  revenge,  whose  effects  are  obviously 
noxious,  and  whose  agitations  are  immediate  misery ;  but  take 
any  of  the  licentious  and  sensual  kind  :  suppose  it  to  have 
unlimited  scope ;  trace  it  throughout  its  course,  and  we  shall 
find  that  gradually,  as  it  rises,  it  taints  the  soundness,  and 


troubles  the  peace,  of  his  mind 


over  whom  it  reigns  , 


that, 


in  its  progress,  it  engages  him  in  pursuits  which' are  marked 
either  with  danger,  or  with' shame:  that,  in  the  end,  it  wastes 
his  fortune,  destroys  his  health,  or  debases  his  character ; 
and  aggravates  all  the  miseries  in  which  it  has  involved  him, 
with  the  coTicludirjg  pangs  of  bitter  remorse.  Throui>h  all 
the  stages  of  th's  fatal  course,  how  many  have  heretofore  run  1 
What  multitudes  do  we  daily  behold  pui^uing  it,  with  blind 
and  headlong  steps?  blair. 

SECTION  VII. 
On  the  proper  state  of  our  Temper  tvith  respect  to  one  another, 
IT  is  evident,  in  the  general,  that  if  we  consult  either  pub- 
lic welfare  or  private  happiness,  Christian  charity  ought  te 


CHiP.  IX.      PROMISCUOUS  PFECES. 


13T 


regulate  our  disposition  in  mutual  intercourse.  But  as  thl» 
great  principle  admits  of  several  diversified  appearances,  lot 
us  consider  some  of  the  chief  forms  under  which  it  ought  to 
show  itself  in  tlie  usual  tenor  of  life. 

2  What  first  presents  itself  to  he  recommended,  is  a 
peaceahle  temper;  a  disposition  averse  to  ^Ive  oiTence  and 
desirous  of  cultivating  harmony,  and  amlculile  intercourse  in 
society.  This  supposes  yielding  and  cnndesceiKiinif  niarniers, 
unwillingness  to  contend  with  others  ahout  trifles,  and,  in 
contests  that  are  unavoidable,  proper  moderation  of  spirit. 

3  Such  a  temper  is  the  first  principle  of  self-enjoyment.  It 
is  the  basis  of  all  order  and  happiness  among  mankind.  The 
positive  and  contentious,  the  rude  and  quarrelsome,  are  the 
Ijane  of  society.  They  seem  destined  to  blast  the  small  share 
of  comfort  w  hich  nature  has  here  allotted  to  man.  But  they 
cannot  disturb  the  peace  of  others,  more  than  they  break  their 
own.  The  hurricane  rages  first  in  their  own  bosom,  before  it 
is  let  forth  upon  the  world.  In  the  tempests  which  they  raise, 
they  are  always  tost;  and  fre<jueittly  it  is  theii*  lot  to  perish. 

4  A  peaceable  temper  must  be  supported  by  a  candid  one, 
or  a  disposition  to  view  the  conduct  of  others  with  fairness  and 
impartiality.  This  stands  opposed  to  a  jealous  and  siispiciuus 
temper  which  ascribej  every  action  to  the  Morst  motive,  and 
throws  ablack  shade  overevery  character.  If  we  w  ould  be  hap- 
py in  ourselves,  or  in  our  connexions  with  otliers,  let  us  guard 
egainst  this  malignant  spirit.  Let  us  study  that  charity  **  which 
thinketh  no  evil ;"  that  temper  which,  w  Ithout  degenerating 
into  credulity  will  dispose  us  to  be  just ;  and  which  can  al- 
low us  to  observe  an  error,  witlifjut  imputing  it  as  a  crime. 
Thus  we  shall  be  kept  free  from  that  continual  irritation,  w  hich 
imaginary  injuries  raise  in  a  suspicious  breast;  and  shall  walk 
among  men  as  our  brethren,  not  as  our  enemies. 

/  6  But  to  be  peaceable,  and  to  be  candid,  is  not  all  that  is 
required  of  a  good  man.  He  must  cultivate  a  kind,  gene- 
rous and  sympathizing  temper,  which  feels  for  distress, 
wherever  it  is  beheld  ;  which  enters  into  the  concerns  of  his 
fj'iends  with  ardour  ;  and  to  all  with  whom  he  lias  intercourse, 
is  gentle,  obliging,  and  humane.  I  lew  amiable  appears 
such  a  disposition,  when  contrasted  v/ith  a  midicious  or  envi- 
ous temper,  which  wraps  itself  up  in  its  ow  n  narrow  interest, 
looks  with  an  evil  eye  on  the  success  of  others,  and,  witii  an 
unnatural  satisfaction,  feeds  on  their  disappointments  or 
miseries!  How  little  does  he  know  of  the  true  happiness  of 
life,  who  is  a  stranger  to  that  intercourse  of  good  offices  and 


138 


»PHfi  ENGLISH  HEADER. 


Paht 


kind  affections,  which,  hy  a  pleasinij  ohann,  attarhoa   \a(».\ 
to  one  another,  and  circulates  joy  from  heart  to  he:nt  ! 

6  We  are  not  to  imagine  that  a  betievolcut  ten)|)(^r  lurls  no 
exercise,  unleas  when  opportunities  otTer  ofpenonniuii-  actiois 
of  high  generosity,  or  of  extensive  utility.  Tlusc  seldtn 
occur.  The  condition  of  the  greater  part  of  niaiiltiud  i;i  a 
good  measure,  precludes  them.  But,  iu  the  ortllir.irv  ronuil  ni' 
human  affairs,  many  occasions  daily  present  tluMnst'lv^^s  oi"  miti- 
gating the  vexations  which  others  su  Her;  of  soothiiij>;thrir  minds; 
of  aiding  their  interest;  of  prornotintj^  their  clieorinliifss  or 
ease.   Such  occasions  may  relate  to  the  snraller  incl  'entso!'!  -e. 

7  But  let  us  remember,  that  of  small  iiu-ideii's  the  system 
of  human  life  is  chiefly  composed.  Ti»e  atttmtio  iS  '.vhich  re- 
spect  these,  when  suggested  hy  real  betdmi-^v  of  teir.j)er-  arc 
often  more  material  to  the  happiness  of  those  aror.mi  us,  tiiiMi 
actions  which  carry  the  appearance  of  gieali  r  d  utility  usl 
splendour.  No  wise  or  good  man,  ought  to  arrount  a  ,y 
rules  of  behaviour  as  below  his  regard  wtrch  teiid  to  ecu  .iit 
the  great  brotherhood  of  mankind  in  comfortwhlj'  iinlon.  Par- 
ticularly amidst  that  familiar  intercourse  whrli  hi  !o.!<];s  to 
domestic  life,  all  the  virtues  of  temper  liiid  an  wmple  r.uiiJts 

8  It  is  very  unfortunate,  that  within  that  circle,  men  loo 
often  think  themselves  at  liberty  to  give  unrestrained  vesit  to 
the  caprice  of  passion  and  humour.  Whereas  there,  on  the 
contrary,  more  than  any  where  else,  it  concerns  them  to  at- 
tend to  the  government  of  their  heart ;  to  check  wliat  is 
violent  in  their  tempers,  and  to  soften  what  is  harsh  in  their 
manners.  For  there  the  temper  is  formed.  There  the 
real  character  displays  itself.  The  forms  of  the  world,  dis- 
^ise  men  when  abroad.  But  within  his  own  family,  every 
man  is  known  to  be  what  he  truly  is. 

9  In  all  our  intercourse  then  with  others,  particularly  in 
tbat  which  is  closest  and  most  intimate  let  us  cultivatn  a 
{>eaceable,  a  candid,  a  gentle,  and  friendly  temper.  This 
h  the  temper  to  which,  by  repeated  injunctions,  our  holy  re- 
ligion seeks  to  form  us.  This  was  the  temper  of  Chrlot. 
\ux\B  is  the  tamper  of  Heaven.  blair. 

SECTION  VIII. 

Excellence  of  the  Holy  Scriptures, 

IS  it  bigotry  to  believe  the  sublime  truths  of  the  Cosjifl, 
lyith  full  assurance  of  faith?  I  glory  in  such  bigotry.  1  ^v(>ill(i 
uot  part  with  it  for  a  thousand  worlds.  [  conuTatulnt(^  (ho 
p$^n  mho  is  possessed  of  it ;  for  amidst  all  th<'  vicis^;'!  id-^s  and 
cahunities  pf  the  present  state,  that  man  enjoys  an  inexhaui^li- 


Chap.  IX.         PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


139 


61e  fund  of  consolation,  of  which  it  is  not  in  the  power  of 
fortune  to  deprive  him. 

2  There  is  not  a  book  on  earth  so  favou ruble  to  all  the 
Ivind,  and  all  the  sublime  affections;  or  so  unfriendly  to  hatred 
and  persecution,  to  tyranny,  to  injustice,  and  every  sort  of 
ni.devolence,  as  the  Gospel.  It  breathes  nothinu  throughout, 
but  mercy,  benevolence,  and  peace. 

3  Poetry  is  sublime,  when  it  awakens  in  the  mind  any  jiijreat 
and  good  ariecLion,  as  piety  or  patriotism.  Ttiis  is  one  oi'  the 
iioltlest  ertects  of  the  art.  The  Psahiis  are  remnrkahle,  beyond 
all  other  writings,  for  their  power  of  inspiring  devout  t-nuilions. 
IJut  it  is  not  in  this  respect  only,  that  they  are  sid)hme.  Of 
ihe  divine  nature,  they  contain  the  most  mau;tiilict'ul  descrip- 
tions, that  the  soul  of  man  can  comprehend.  The  hui'.dred  and 
fourth  Psalm,  in  particular,  displays  the  power  and  goodness  of 
Providence,  ui  creating  and  preserving  die  w<n  Id,  and  the  vari- 
ous tribes  of  animalsin  it,  with  such  majestic  brevity  an<i  beau- 
ty, as  it  is  vaiji  to  look  for  in  any  human  ronipositlon. 

4  Such  of  the  doctrines  of  tiie  Gospel  as  are  level  to  human 
capacity,  appear  to  be  agreeable  to  the  purest  trutii,  and  tiie 
soundest  morality.  All  the  genius  and  learning  of  tl»e  lieaLlien 
world;  all  the  penetration  of  Pythagcy'as,  Socrates,  and  Aris- 
tolle,  had*  never  been  able  to  producp  such  a  system  of  moral 
duty,  and  so  rational  an  account  of  Providence  and  of  man,  as 
are  to  be  found  in  the  New  Testament.  Compared,  nideeil, 
with  this,  all  other  moral  and  theological  wisdom 

"  Losea,  discouiUeiianc'J,  and  like  folly  sliowa".  BEAT  TIE. 

SECTION  IX. 

Reflections  occaniontd  by  a  review  of  the  Bhmnp^s  provoffvcfd 
b]}  Christ  on  his  Disciples^  in  his  Sermon  on  the  JSIount. 

WHAT  abundant  reason  have  we  to  thank  God,  that  this 
large  and  instructive  discourse  of  our  blessed  Redeemer,  i* 
so  particularly  recorded  by  tlie  sacred  historian.  Let  every 
one  that  "  hath  ears  to  hear,"  attend  to  it :  for  surely  no  ninn 
ever  spoke  as  our  Lord  did  on  this  occasion.  Let  us  Ox  onr 
minds  in  a  posture  of  humble  attention,  that  we  may  *'  re- 
ceive the  law  from  his  mouth." 

2  He  opened  it  with  blessings,  repeated  and  mostimporta'jl 
blessings.  But  on  whom  are  they  pronounced  ?  and  whom  are 
we  taught  to  think  the  happiest  of  mankind]  The  meek  and 
the  humble;  the  penitent  and  the  merciful;  the  peaci'ful  and 
the  pure,  those  that  hunger  and  thirst  after  riiihteousness ;  those 
that  labour,  but  faint  not,  under  persecution!  Lord'  how  dif- 
ferent are  thy  maxims  from  those  of  the  children  of  tliis  world ! 


Ff^^"  ; 


140 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


!l 


3  They  call  the  proud  happy ;  and  admire  the  ^ay,  the  rich, 
the  powerful,  and  the  victorious.  But  let  a  vain  world  take 
its  gaudy  trifles,  and  dress  up  the  foolish  creatures  tliat  pursue 
them.  May  our  souls  share  in  that  happiness  which  the 
Son  of  God  came  to  recommend  and  to  procure  !  May  we 
obtain  mercy  of  the  Lord ;  may  we  be  owned  as  his  children; 
enjoy  his  presence ;  and  inherit  his  kingdom !  With  tiiese 
enjoyments,  and  these  hopes,  we  will  cheerfully  welcome  the 
lowest,  or  the  most  painful  circumstances. 

4  Let  us  be  animated  to  cultivate  those  amiable  virtues 
which  are  here  recommended  to  us;  this  humility  and  meek- 
ness; this  penitent  sense  of  sin;  this  ardent  desire  after  right- 
eousness; this  compassion  and  purity;  this  peacefulness 
and  fortitude  of  soul;  and,  in  a  word,  this  universal  good- 
ness which  becomes  us,  as  we  sustain  the  character  of  "  the 
bait  of  the  earth,"  and  "the  light  of  the  world." 

5  Is  there  not  reason  to  lament,  that  we  answer  the  cha- 
racter no  better?  Is  there  not  reason  to  exclaim  with  a  good 
man  in  former  times  :  "  Blessed  Lord !  either  these  are  not 
tliy  words,  or  we  are  not  Christians!"  Oh,  season  our  hearts 
more  effectually  with  thy  grace!  Pour  forth  that  divine  oil  on 
our  lamps!  Then  shalj  the  flame  brighten;  then  shall  the 
ancient  honours  of  thy  religion  be  revived ;  and  multitudes  be 
awakened  and  animated,  by  the  lustre  of  it,  "  to  glorify  our 
Father  in  heaven."  doddridge. 

SECTION. X. 

Schemes  of  Life  often  illusory. 

OMAR,  the  son  of  Hassan,  had  passed  seventy-five  years  in 

honour  and  prosperity.    The  favour  of  three  successive  califs 

had  filled  his  house  with  gold  and  silver  ;  and  whenever  he 

appea  red,  the  benedictions  of  the  people  proclaimed  his  passage. 

2  Terrestrial  happiness  is  of  short  continuance.  The  bright- 
ness of  the  flame  is  wasting  its  fuel ;  the  fragrant  flower  is 
jr'^ssing  away  in  its  own  odours.  The  vigour  of  Omar  began 
to  fail  ;  the  curls  of  beauty  fell  from  his  head  ;  strength  de- 
parted from  his  hands ;  and  agility  i'vnm  his  feet.  Re  gave 
l»a(:if  to  the  calif  fhe  keys  of  trust,  and  the  seals  ofsecrccy ;  and 
Fouoht  no  other  pleasure  Wh'  the  remains  oflife,  than  the  con- 
verse of  the  wise,  and  the  pratitude  of  the  good. 

3  The  powers  of  his  mind  were  yet  unimpaired.  Mis  cham- 
ber was  filled  hy  visitants,  eager  to  catch  the  dictates  of  expe- 
rience, and  ofl^icious  to  pay  the  tril>ute  of  admiration.  Caled, 
the  son  of  the  viceroy  of  Egypt,  entered  every  day  early,  and  re- 
tired late.  He  was  beautiful  and  eloquent:  Omar  admired  his 
wit,  and  loved  his  docility.     "  Tell  me,"  said  Caled,  "  thou  to 


Chap.  IX.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


141 


whose  voice  nations  have  listened,  and  whose  wisdom  is  known 
to  the  extremities  of  Asia,  tell  me  how  I  may  resemble  Omar 
the  prudent.  The  arts  by  which  thou  hast  gained  power  and 
presei'ved  it,  are  to  thee  no  longer  necerjsary  or  usenil ;  i^ipart 
to  me  the  secret  of  thy  conduct,  and  teach  me  the  plan  upon 
which  thy  wisdom  has  built  thy  fortune." 

4  "  Young  man,"  said  Omar,"  it  is  of  little  use  to  form  plans 
of  life.  When  I  took  my  first  survey  of  the  world,  in  my  twen- 
tieth year,  having  considered  the  various  conditions  of  mankind, 
in  the  hour  of  solitude  I  said  thus  to  myself,  leaning  against  a 
cedar,  which  spread  its  branches  over  my  head  :  **  Seventy 
years  are  allowed  to  man  ;  I  have  yet  fifty  remaining. 

5  "  Ten  years  I  will  allot  to  the  attainment  of  knowledge, 
and  ten  I  will  pass  in  foreign  countries  ;  I  shall  be  learned, 
and  therefore  shall  be  honoured  ;  every  city  will  shout  at  my 
arrival,  and  every  student  will  solicit  my  friendship.  Twenty 
years  thus  passed,  will  store  my  mind  with  images,  which  I 
shall  be  busy,  through  the  rest  of  my  life,  in  combining  and 
comparing.  I  shall  revel  in  inexhaustible  accumulations  of 
intellectual  riches ;  I  shall  find  new  pleasures  for  every  mo- 
ment, and  shall  never  more  be  weary  of  myself. 

6  ^*  I  will  not,  however,  deviate  too  far  from  the  beaten  track 
of  life;  but  will  try  what  can  be  found  in  female  delicacy.  I  will 
marry  a  wife  beautiful  as  the  Houries,  and  wise  as  Zobeide ; 
with  her  •!  will  live  twenty  years  within  the  suburbs  of  Bagdat,  in 
every  pleasure  that  wealth  can  purchase,  and  fancy  can  invent.. 

7  *'  I  will  then  retire  to  a  rural  dwelling ;  pass  my  days  in 
obscurity  and  contemplation ;  and  lie  silently  down  on  the  bed 
of  death.  Through  my  life  it  shall  be  my  settled  resolution, 
that  I  will  never  depend  upon  the  smile  of  princes ;  that  I  will 
never  stand  exposed  to  the  artifices  of  courts  ;  I  will  never 
pant  for  public  honours,  nor  disturb  my  quiet  with  the  affairs 
of  state."  Such  was  my  scheme  of  life,  which  I  impressed 
indelibly  upon  my  memory. 

8  "  The  first  part  of  my  ensuing  time  was  to  be  spent  in  search 
of  knowledge,  and  I  know  not  how  I  was  diveited  from  my  de- 
sign. I  had  no  visible  impediments  without,  nor  any  ungovern- 
able passions  within.  I  regarded  knowledge  as  the  highest  ho- 
nour, and  the  most  engaging  pleasure ;  yet  day  stole  upon  day, 
and  month  glided  after  month,  till  I  found  that  seven  years  of 
the  first  ten  had  vanished,  and  left  nothing  behind  them. 

9  "  I  now  postponed  my  purpose  of  travelling ;  for  why 
should  I  go  abroad,  while  so  much  remained  to  be  learned  at 
home  ?  I  immured  myself  for  four  years,  and  studied  the  laws 
of  the  empire.     The  fame  of  my  skill  reached  the  judges  •  1 


^  I 


^1,1 


142 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


'Il- 


I  { 


was  found  able  to  speak  upon  doubtful  questions ;  and  was 
commanded  to  stand  at  the  footstool  of  the  calif.  I  was  heani 
with  attention;  I  was  consulted  with  confidence;  and  the  love 
of  praise  fastened  on  my  heart. 

10  *<  1  still  wished  to  see  distant  countries ;  listened  witli 
rapture  to  the  relations  of  travellers;  and  resolved  some  time 
to  ask  my  dismission,  that  I  might  feast  my  soul  with  novelty : 
but  my  presence  was  always  necessary  ;  and  the  stream  of 
busmets  hurried  me  along.  SomPtinries  I  was  afraid  lest  I 
should  be  charged  with  ingratitude  ;  but  I  still  proposed  to 
travel,  and  therefore  would  not  confine  myself  by  marriage. 

11  <<  In  my  fiflieth  year,  I  began  to  suspect  that  the  time  of 
travelling  was  past ;  and  thought  it  best  to  lay  hold  on  the  fe- 
licity yet  in  my  power,  and  indulge  myself  In  domestic  plea 
sures.  But  at  nfly  no  man  easily  finds  a  woman  beautiful  as 
the  Houries,  and  wise  as  Zobeide.  I  inquired  and  rejected^ 
consulted  and  deliberated,  till  the  sixty-second  year  made  me 
ashamed  of  wishing  to  marry.  I  had  now  nothing  lefl  but 
retirement ;  and  for  retirement  I  never  found  a  time  till  dis- 
ease  forced  me  from  public  employment. 

12  '*  Such  was  my  scheme,  and  such  has  been  its  conse> 
quence.  With  an  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge,  I  trifled 
away  the  years  of  improvement ;  with  a  restless  desin  of  see- 
ing diiTerent  countries,  1  have  always  resided  in  U ;.»  same 
city ;  wit!  the  highest  expectation  of  connubial  felicity,  I 
have  lived  unmarried;  and  with  unalterable  resolutions  of  coii- 
templative  retirement,  I  am  going  to  die  within  the  walls  of 

Bagdat,"  DR.  JOHNSON. 

SECTION  XI. 

The  Pleasures  of  virtuotis  Sentibility, 
THE  good  effects  of  true  aensibility,  on  general  virtue  and 
happiness,  admit  of  no  dispute.  Let  us  consider  its  effect  on 
the  happiness  of  him  who  possesses  it,  and  the  various  plea- 
sures to  which  it  gives  him  access.  If  he  is  master  of  riches 
or  influence,  it  affords  him  the  means  of  increasing  his  own  en* 
joyment,  by  relieving  the  wants,  or  increasing  the  comforts  ot 
ouiers.  If  he  commands  not  these  advantages,  yet  all  the  com- 
forts which  he  sees  in  the  possession  of  the  deserving,  become 
In  some  sort  his,  by  his  rejoicing  in  the  good  which  they  enjoy. 
2  Even  the  face  of  nature,  yields  a  satisf  ion  to  him  which 
the  insensible  can  never  know.  The  profusion  of  goodness, 
which  he  beUolds  poured  forth  on  the  universe, dilates  his  heart 
with  the  thought;,  that  innumt  ^^ble  multitudes  around  him  are 
folest  and  happy.  When  he  sees  the  labours  of  men  appeariuj^ 
to  prosper,  and  views  a  country  flourishing  in  wealth  and  iu 


Chap.  IX.       PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


HB 


dustry  ;  when  he  beholds  the  spring  coming  forth  in  its  beau- 
ty, and  reviving  the  decayed  face  of  nature ;  or  in  autumn 
beholds  the  fields  loaded  with  plenty,  and  the  year  crowned 
with  all  Hs  fruits  ;  he  lifts  his  affections  with  gratitude  to  the 
great  Father  of  all,  and  rejoices  in  the  general  felicity  and  joy. 

3  It  may,  Indeed,  be  objected,  that  the  same  sensibility  lays 
open  the  heart  to  be  pierced  with  many  wounds,  from  the  dis- 
tresses which  abound  in  the  world  ;  exposes  us  to  frequent  suf- 
fering from  the  participation  which  it  communicates  of  the  sor- 
rows, as  well  as  of  the  joys  of  friendship.  Rut  let  it  be  consider- 
ed, that  the  tender  melancholy  of  symphathy  is  accompanied 
with  a  sensation  which  they  who  feel  it  would  not  exchange  for 
the  gratifications  of  the  selfish.  When  the  heail  is  strongly 
moved  by  any  of  the  kind  affections,  even  when  it  pours  itaeljf 
forth  in  virtuous  sorrow,  a  secret  attractive  charm  mingles  witH 
the  painful  emotion  :  there  is  a  joy  in  the  midst  of  grief. 

4  Let  it  be  farther  considered,  that  the  griefs  which  sensibi- 
lity introduces,  are  counterbalanced  by  pleasures  which  floir 
from  the  same  source.  Sensibility  heightens  in  general  the 
human  powers,  and  is  connected  with  acuteness  in  all  our  feel- 
ings. If  it  maices  us  more  alive  to  some  painful  sensations,  in 
return,  it  renders  the  pleasing  ones  more  vivid  and  animated* 

5  The  selfish  man  languishes  in  his  narrow  circle  of  plea- 
sures. They  are  confined  to  what  affects  his  own  interest. 
He  is  obliged  to  repeat  the  same  gratifications,  till  they  become 
insipid.  But  the  man  of  virtuous  sensibility  moves  in  a  wider 
sphere  of  felicity.  His  powers  are  much  more  frequently 
called  forth  into  occupations  of  pleasing  activity.  Number- 
less occasions  open  to  him  of  indulging  his  favourite  taste,  by 
conveying  satisfaction  to  others.  Often  it  is  in  his  power,  in 
one  way  or  other,  to  sooth  the  afflicted  heart,  to  carry  some 
consolation  into  the  house  of  wo. 

6  In  the  scenes  of  ordinary  life,  in  the  domestic  and  social 
intercourses  of  men,  the  cordiality  of  his  affections  cheers  and 
gladdens  him.  Every  appearance,  every  description  of  in- 
nocent happiness,  is  enjoyed  by  him.  Every  native  expres- 
sion of  kindness  and  affection  among  others,  is  felt  by  hun, 
even  though  he  be  not  the  object  of  it.  In  a  circle  of  friends 
enjoying  one  another,  he  is  as  happy  as  the  happiest, 

7  In  a  word,  he  lives  in  a  different  sort  of  world,  from 
that  which  the  selfish  man  inhabits.  He  possesses  a  new  sense 
that  enablss  him  to  behold  objects  which  the  selfish  cannot 
see.  At  the  same  time,  bis  enjoyments  are  not  of  that  kind 
whkh  remain  merely  on  the  smrface  of  the  mind.  They  pe- 
Qetrate  the  heart.      They  enlarge  and  elevate,  they  renile 


144 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Paut  1. 


and  ennoble  it.     To  all  the  pleasin*'  emotions  of  aflTectioa 
Ihey  add  the  dignified  consciousness  of  virtue. 

8  Children  of  men  !  men  formed  by  nature  to  live  and  to 
feel  as  brethren!  how  long  will  ye  continue  to  rstrange  your- 
selves from  one  another  by  competitions  and  j«  alousies,  when 
in  cordial  union  ye  might  be  so  much  more  Itlest  ?  How  long 
will  ye  seek  your  happiness  in  selfish  {^fratifications  alone*,  ncg, 
lecting  those  purer  and  better  sources  of  joy  which  flow 
from  the  affections  and  the  heart  ?  blaik. 

SECTION  XH. 

On  the  true  Honour  of  Man. 

THE  proper  honour  of  man  arises  not  from  some  of  those 
splendid  actions  and  abilities  which  excite  lilgh  jidniiratiuii 
Courage  and  prowess,  military  renown,  signal  victories  and 
conquests,  may  render  the  name  of  a  man  famous  vvltliout 
rendering  his  character  truly  honourable.  To  many  brave 
men,  to  many  heroes  renowned  in  story,  we  look  up  with 
vronder.  Their  exploits  are  recorded.  Their  praise3  are 
Bung.  They  stand,  as  on  an  eminence,  above  the  rest  of  man- 
kind. Their  eminence,  nevertheless,  mav  not  be  of  that  sort 
before  which  we  bow  with  inward  esteem  and  respect.  Sonic- 
thing  more  is  wanted  fDr  that  purpose,  than  the  conquering 
arm,  and  the  intrepid  mind. 

2  The  laurelsof  the  warrior  must  at  all  times  be  dyed  in  blood, 
and  bedewed  with  the  tears  of  the  widow  ami  the  orphnn.  But 
if  they  have  been  stained  by  rapine  and  inhumanity;  if  sordid 
avarice  has  marked  his  character ;  or  low  and  gross  sensuality 
has  degraded  his  life ;  the  great  hero  sinks  into  a  little  man. 
What,  at  a  distance,  or  on  a  superficial  view,  we  admired,  be- 
comes mean,  peiiiaps  odious,  when  we  examine  it  more  close- 
ly. It  is  like  the  Colossal  statue,  whose  immense  size  struck 
the  spectator  afar  off  with  astonishment ;  lilft  when  nearly 
viewed,  it  appears  disproportioned,  unshapely,  and  rude. 

3  Observations  of  the  same  kind  may  be  applied  to  all  the 
reputation  derived  from  civil  accomplishments  ;  from  the  re- 
fined politics  of  the  statesman,  or  the  literary  efforts  of  geniuj 
and  erudition.  These  bestow,  and  within  certain  bounds  ought 
to  bestow,  eminence  and  distinction  on  men.  They  discover 
talents  which  in  themselves  are  shining;  and  vh  4ii  become 
highly  valuable,  when  employed  in  advancing  the  good  of  man- 
kind. Hence  they  frequently  give  rise  to  fame.  But  a  dis- 
tinction is  to  be  made  between  fame  and  true  honour. 

4  The  statesman,  the  orator,  or  the  poet,  may  be  famous ; 
wlule  yet  the  msA  himseU*  is  far  from  being  honoured.     We 


uigs  ;  c 


Tl 
WH 
calms  ? 
votion 
spires  < 
the  pail 
means, 
placid 

2  B^ 
votion 
eAtire ; 


CiiAf.  IX.        PROMISCUOIS  PIECES. 


1*1^ 


envy  his  abilities.  We  wish  to  rival  them.  But  we  woulJ 
not  choose  to  be  classed  with  him  who  possesses  them.  In- 
stances of  t\us  sort  are  too  often  found  in  every  record  of  an- 
cient or  modern  history. 

6  From  all  this  it  follows,  that  in  order  to  discern  where 
man's  true  honour  lies,  we  must  looic,  not  to  any  adventitioui» 
cupcumstances  of  fortune;  not  to  any  single  sparkling  quality  i 
but  to  the  whole  of  what  forms  a  man  ;  what  entitles  him  aa( 
such,  to  rank  high  among  that  class  of  iieings  to  wbich  ha  be^ 
laiigs;  in  a  word,  we  must  look  to  the  mind  and  the  soul. 

6  A  mind  superior  to  fear,  to  selfish  interest  and  corruption  i 
a  mind  governed  by  the  principles  of  uniform  rectitude  and  in- 
tegi'ity;  the  same  in  prosperity  and  advei*sity ;  which  no  hnhe 
cunseduce,  nor  terror  ovei-awe;  neither  by  pleasure  melted  inta 
eifeminacy,  nor  by  distress  sunk  into  dejection  :  sudi  is  the' 
mind  which  forms  the  distinction  and  eminence  of  nr.ni, 

7  One  who,  in  no  situation  of  life,  is  either  ashamed  or  afraiJ 
of  discharging  his  duty,  and  acting  his  proper  part  with  firm- 
ness and  constancy;  true  to  the  God  whom  he  worships,  knd 
tiue  to  the  faith  in  which  he  professes  to  believe  ;  lull  of  al- 
fectlon  to  hi3  brethren  of  mai.kind ;  faithfid  to  his  friends,  gen-- 
erous  to  his  enemies,  warm  with  compassion  to  the  unfortu" 
nate;  Ifelf-denying  to  little  prvate  interests  and  plj'asnres,  but 
zealous  for  public  interest  and  happiness;  magnanimous,  with- 
out being  proud;  humble,  without  being  mean;  just,  without 
being  harsh  ;  simple  in  his  manners,  but  manly  in  his  feeU 
iiigs  ;  on  whose  word  we  can  entirely  rely  ;  whose  counten- 
ance never  deceives  us  ;  whose  professions  of  kij)dness  are  th^ 
effusions  of  his  heart :  one,  in  fine,  whom,  independently  of 
any  views  of  advantage,  we  should  clioose  for  a  superior^ 
could  trust  in  as  a  friend,  and  could  Ifjve  as  a  brothei* — this  is 
the  man,'  whom,  in  our  heart,  above  all  others,  we  do,  W0 
must  honour.  Blair* 

SECTION  XIII. 
The  influence  of  Devotion  on  the  happiness  of  Life, 

WHATEVER  promotes  and  strengthens  virtue,  whatevei* 
calms  ymd  regulates  the  temper,  is  a  sourre  of  happiness.  De- 
votion produces  these  effects  m  a  remarkable  degree.  It  in- 
spires composure  of  spirit,  miklness,  and  benignity;  weakens^ 
the  painful,  and  cherishes  the  pleasing  emotions ;  and,  by  these? 
means,  carries  on  the  life  of  a  pious  man  in  a  smooth  anj 
placid  tenor. 

2  Besides  exerting  this  habitual  influence  on  the  mind,  de- 
votion opens  a  field  of  enjoyments,  to  which  the  vicious  are 
entire  strangers ;  enjoyments  the  noiore  valuable,  as  they  peru- 


''-'X 


146 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


liarly  belong  to  retii'ement,  when  the  world  leaves  us ;  and  to 
advei'sity,  when  it  becomes  our  foe.  These  are  the  two  sea- 
sons for  which  every  wise  man  would  most  wish  to  provide 
some  hidden  store  of  comfort. 

3  For  let  him  be  placed  in  the  most  favourable  situation 
which  the  human  state  admits,  the  world  can  neither  always 
amuse  him,  nor  always  shield  liim  from  distress.  There  will 
be  many  hours  of  vacuity,  and  many  of  dejection,  in  his  life. 
If  he  be  a  stranger  to  God,  and  to  devotion,  how  dreary  will 
the  gloom  of  solitude  often  prove !  With  what  oppressive  weight 
will  sickness,  disappointment,  or  old  age,  fall  upon  his  spirits! 

4  But  for  those  pensive  periods,  the  pious  man  has  a  relief 
prepared.  From  the  tiresome  repetition  of  the  common  vani- 
ties of  life,  or  from  the  painful  corrosion  of  its  cares  and  sor- 
rows, devotion  transports  him  into  a  new  region;  and  surrounds 
him  there  with  such  objects,  as  are  the  most  fitted  to  cheer  the 
dejection,  to  calm  the  tumults,  and  to  heal  the  wounds  of  his 
heart. 

5  If  the  world  has  been  empty  and  delusive,  it  gladdens  him 
with  the  prospect  of  a  higher  and  better  order  of  tilings,  about 
to  arise.  If  men  have  been  ungrateful  and  base,  it  displays 
before  him  the  faithfulness  of  that  Supreme  Being,  who,  tliough 
every  other  friend  fail,  will  never  forsake  him.    , ,  ,,vjf 

6  Let  us  consult  our  experience,  and  we  shall  find,  that  the 
two  greatest  sources  of  inward  j'jy,  are,  the  exercise  of  love 
directed  towards  a  deserving  object,  and  the  exercise  of  hope 
terminating  on  some  high  and  assured  happiness.  Both  these 
are  supplied  by  devotion ;  and,  therefore,  we  have  no  reason  to 
be  surprised,  if,  on  some  occasions,  it  fills  the  hearts  of  good 
men  with  a  satisfaction  not  to  be  expressed. 

7  The  refined  pleasures  of  a  pious  mind  are,  in  many  re- 
gpects,  superior  to  the  coai'se  gratifications  of  sense.  They  are 
pleasures  which  belong  to  the  highest  powers  and  best  affec- 
tions of  the  soul ;  whereas  the  gratifications  of  sense  reside  in 
the  lowest  region  of  our  nature.  To  the  latter,  the  soul  stoops 
below  its  native  dignity.  The  former,  raise  it  above  itself.  The 
latter,  leave  always  a  comfortless,  often  a  mortifying,  remem- 
brance behind  them.  The  former  are  reviewed  with  applause 
and  delight.  , 

8  The  pleasures  of  sense  resemble  a  foaming  torrent,  which, 
after  a  disorderly  course,  speedily  runs  out,  aud  leaves  an 
empty  and  offensive  channel.  But  th?  pleasures  of  devotion 
resemble  the  equable  current  of  a  pure  river,  which  enlivens 
the  fields  through  which  it  passes,  and  diffuses  verdure  and  fer- 
tility along  its  banks. 


t^^ 


CHAP.  IX.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


14" 


9  To  thee,  O  Devotion!  we  one  the  highest  improvement 
of  our  nature,  and  much  of  the  enjoyment  of  our  life.  Thou 
art  the  support  of  our  virtjue,  and  the  rest  of  our  souls,  in  this 
turbulent  world.  Thou  composest  the  thoughts.  Thou  calm,  st 
the  passions.  Thou  exaltest  the  heart.  Thy  communications, 
and  thine  only,  are  imparted  to  the  low,  no  less  than  to  the 
high ;  to  the  poor,  as  well  as  to  the  rich. 

10  In  thy  presence  worldly  distinctions  cease ;  and,  under 
thy  influence,  worldly  sorrows  are  forgotten.  Thou  art  the 
balm  of  the  wounded  mind.  Thy  sanctuary  is  ever  open  lo 
the  miserable;  inaccessible  only  to  the  unrighteous  and  impure. 
Thou  beginnest  on  earth  the  temper  of  heaven.  In  thee  the 
nosts  of  angels  and  blessed  spirits  eternally  rejoice,      blaiu. 

SECTION  XIV. 

The  planetary  and  terrestrial  Worlds  comparatively  considered . 

TO  us,  who  dwell  on  its  surface,  the  earth  is  by  far  the 
most  extensive  orb  that  our  eyes  can  any  where  behold  :  it  is 
also  clothed  with  verdure,  distinguished  by  trees,  and  adorned 
with  a  variety  of  beautiful  decorations;  whereas,  to  a  specta- 
tor placed  on  one  of  the  planets,  it  wears  a  uniform  aspect ; 
looks  all  luminous  ;  and  no  larger  than  a  spot.  To  beings 
who  dwHU  at  still  greater  distances,  it  entirely  disappears. 

2  That  which  we  call  alternately  the  morning  and  the  even- 
ing star,  (as  in  one  part  of  the  orbit  she  rides  foremost  in  the 
procession  of  night,  in  the  other  ushers  in  and  anticipates  the 
dawn,)  is  a  planetary  world.  This  planet,  and  the  four  others 
that  so  wonderfully  vary  their  mystic  dance,  are  in  themselves 
dark  bodies,  and  shine  only  by  reflection ;  have  fields,  and 
seas,  and  skies  of  their  own;  are  furnished  with  all  accom- 
modations for  animal  subsistence,  and  are  supposed  to  be  th.e 
abodes  of  intellectual  life  ;  all  which,  together  with  our  earth- 
ly habitation,  are  dependent  on  that  grand  dispenser  of  Divitie 
munificence,  the  sun ;  receive  their  light  from  the  distributian 
of  his  rays,  and  derive  their  comfort  from  his  benign  agencj . 

3  The  sun,  which  seems  to  perform  its  daily  stages  through 
the  sky,  is,  in  this  respect,  fixed  and  immoveable  :  it  is  the 
great  axle  of  heaven,  about  which  the  globe  we  inhabit,  and 
other  more  spacious  orbs,  wheel  their  stated  courses.  The 
sun,  though  seemingly  smaller  than  the  dial  it  illuminates,  is 
more  than  a  million  times  larger  than  this  whole  earth,  on 
which  so  many  lofty  mountains  rise,  and  such  vast  oceans  rolK 
A  line  extending  from  side  to  side  through  the  centre  of  that 
resplendent  orb,  would  measure  more  than  eight  hundred  thou- 
sand miles :  a  girdle  formed  to  go  round  lis  circumference, 


■'jy 


■  '  ■  .,•-*■ 


14S 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  I. 


would  require  a  length  of  millions.  Were  its  solid  contents 
to  be  estimated,  the  account  would  overwhelm  our  understand- 
ing, and  be  almost  beyond  the  power  of  language  to  express. 
Are  we  startled  at  these  reports  of  philosophy ! 

4  Are  we  ready  to  cry  out  in  a  transport  of  surprise,  "  How 
mighty  is  the  Being  who  kindled  so  prodigious  a  fire ;  ami 
keeps  alive,  from  age  to  age,  so  enormous  a  mass  of  flame !" 
let  us  attend  our  philosophical  guides,  and  we  shall  be  brought 
Acquainted  with  speculations  more  enlarged  and  more  in- 
flaming. 

5  This  sun,  with  all  its  attendant  planets,  is  but  a  very  little 
part  of  the  grand  machine  of  the  universe :  every  star,  though 
m  appearance  no  bigger  than  the  diamond  that  glitter?  u^  m  u 
lady's  ring,  Is  really  a  vast  globe,  like  the  sun  in  size  r 
glory  ;  no  less  spacious,  no  less  luminous,  than  the  rj^i*  <  li 
source  of  day.  So  that  every  star,  is  not  barely  a  world, 
but  the  centre  of  a  magnificent  system ;  has  a  retinue  of  worlds, 
Irradiated  by  its  beams,  and  revolving  round  its  attractive  in- 
fluence, all  which  are  lost  to  our  sight  in  unuieasurable  wilds 
of  ether. 

6  Tha^  the  stars  appear  like  so  many  diminutive,  and  scarce- 
ly distinguishable  points^  is  owing  to  their  immense  and  incon- 
ceivable distance.  Immense  and  inconceivable  indeed  it  is, 
since  a  ball  shot  from  the  loaded  cannon,  and  flying  with  un- 
abated rapidity,  must  travel,  at  this  impetuous  rate,  almost 
Beven  hundred  thousand  years,  before  it  could  reach  the  near- 
est of  these  twinkling  luminaries. 

7  While  beholding  this  vast  expanse,  I  learn  my  own  ex- 
treme meanness,  I  would  also  discover  the  abject  littleness  of 
nil  terrestrial  things.  What  is  the  earth,  with  all  her  ostenta- 
tious scenes,  compared  with  this  astonishing  grand  furniture 
of  the  skies  ?  What,  but  a  dim  speck,  hardly  perceivable  in 
the  map  of  the  universe.  ' 

8  It  is  observed  by  a  very  judicious  i^riter,  that  ii  the  sun 
himself,  which  enlightens  this  part  of  the  creation,  were  ex« 
tinguished,  and  all  the  host  of  planetary  worlds,  which  move 
about  him,  were  annihilated,  they  would  not  be  missed  by  an 
eye  that  can  take  in  the  whole  compass  of  nature,  any  more 
than  a  grain  of  sand  upon  the  sea-shore.  The  bulk  of  which 
they  consist,  and  the  space  which  they  occupy,  are  so  exceed- 
ingly little  in  comparison  of  the  whole,  that  their  loss  would 
scarcely  leave  a  blank  in  the  immensity  of  God's  works, 

9  If  then,  not  our  globe  only,  but  this  whole  system,  bo 
90  very  diminutive,  ^hat  is  a  kingdom,  or  a  country  1  What 
B|9  a  few  lordships,  or  the  lo  much  admired  patnmomes  or 


Chap.  IX.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


149 


those  who  are  styled  wealthy  ?  \^^len  I  measure  them  with 
my  own  little  pittance,  they  swell  into  proud  and  bloated  di- 
mensions :  but  when  I  take  the  universe  for  my  standard,  how 
scanty  is  their  size !  how  contemptible  their  figure  !  They 
shrink  into  pompous  nothings.  addison. 

SECTION  XV. 

Onthe  power  of  Customy  and  the  usestotchtchtt  maybeapplierf, 

THERE  is  not  a  common  saying,  which  has  a  better  turn 
of  sense  in  it,  than  what  we  often  hear  in  the  mouths  of  the 
vulgar,  that  "  Custom  is  a  second  nature."  It  is  indeed  able  to 
form  the  man  anew  ;  and  give  him  inclinations  and  capacities 
altogether  different  from  tho«e  he  was  born  with. 

2  A  person  who  is  addicted  to  play  or  gaming,  though  he  took 
but  little  delight  in  it  at  first,  by  degrees  contracts  so  strong  an 
inclination  towards  it,  and  gives  himself  up  so  entirely  to  it, 
that  it  seems  the  only  end  of  his  being.  The  love  of  a  retired 
or  busy  life  will  grow  upon  a  man  insensibly,  as  he  is  conver- 
sant in  the  one  or  the  other,  till  he  is  utterly  unqualified  for  re- 
lishing that  to  which  he  has  Iieen  for  some  time  disused. 

3  Nay,  a  man  may  smoke,  or  drink,  or  take  snuff,  till  he  is 
unable  to  pass  away  his  time  without  it ;  not  to  mention  hov/ 
our  delight  in  any  particular  study,  art,  or  science,  rises  ajui 
improves,  in  proportion  to  the  application  which  we  bestow 
upon  it.  Thus,  what  was  at  first  an  exercise,  becomes  at  length 
an  entertaiiunent.  Our  employments  are  changed  into  diver- 
sions. The  mind  grows  fond  of  those  actions  it  is  accustomed 
to ;  and  is  drawn  with  reluctancy  from  those  paths  in  which  it' 
has  been  used  to  walk. 

4  If  we  attentively  consider  this  property  of  human  nature, 
It  may  instruct  ui  in  very  fine  moralities.  In  the  first  place,  I 
would  have  no  man  discouraged  with  that  kind  of  life,  or  series 
of  action,  in  which  the  choice  of  othei*s,  or  his  own  necessities, 
may  have  engaged  him.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  ver}'  disag***»eahIo 
to  him,  at  first;  but  use  and  application  will  certainly  rendt-i  it 
not  only  less  painful,  but  pleasing  and  satisfactory. 

5  In  the  second  place,  I  would  recommend  to  every  one, 
the  admirable  precept,  which  Pythagoras  is  said  to  have  given 
to  bis  disciples,  and  which  that  philosopher  must  have  drawn 
from  the  observation  I  have  enlarged  upon .  "  Pitch  upon  that 
course  of  life  which  is  the  most  excellent,  and  custom  will  reu* 
der  it  the  most  delightful.'' 

6  Men,  whose  circumstances  will  permit  them  to  choo.^e 
their  own  way  of  life,  Tire  inexcusable  if  they  do  not  pui*sue 
that  whichtheir  judgment  tells  them  is  the  most  laudable.  The 


150 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I. 


voice  of  reason  is  more  to  be  regarded,  than  the  bent  of  anj 
present  inclination ;  since  by  the  rule  above  mentioned,  inchna- 
tion  will  at  length  come  over  to  reason,  though  we  can  never 
force  reason  to  comply  with  inclination. 

7  In  the  third  place,  this  observation  may  teach  the  most 
sensual  and  irrelijjious  man,  to  overlook  those  hardships  and 
difficulties  which  are  apt  to  discourage  him  from  the  prosecii 
tion  of  a  virtuous  life.  "  The  gods,'*  said  Hesiod,  **have  placea 
labour  before  virtue;  the  way  to  her  is  at  first  rough  and  dilFw 
cult,  but  grows  more  smooth  and  easy  the  fartlier  we  advance 
in  it."  The  man  who  proceeds  in  it  with  steadiness  and  reso- 
lution, will,  in  a  little  time,  find  that  "  her  ways  are  ways  of 
pleasantness,  and  that  all  her  paths  are  peace." 

8  To  enforce  this  consideration,  we  may  further  observe, 
that  the  practice  of  reliijion  "will  not  only  be  attended  with  that 
pleasure  which  naturally  accompanies  those  actions  to  which 
we  are  habituated, hut  with  those  supernumerary  joysof  heart, 
that  rise  from  the  consciousness  of  such  a  pleasure  ;  fi'om  the 
satisfaction  of  actinsr  up  to  the  dictates  of  reason;  and  from  the 
prospect  of  a  happy  immortality. 

9  In  the  fourth  place,  »we. may  learn  from  this  obsen'^ation, 
which  we  have  made  on  the  m?.ud  of  man,  to  take  particulrii' 
care,  when  we  are  once  settled  in  a  regular  course  of  life,  how 
we  too  frequently  indulge  ourselves  in  even  the  most  innocent 
diversions  and  entertainments ;  since  the  mind  may  insensibly 
fall  off  from  the  relish  of  virtuous  actions,  and  by  degrees,  ex- 
change that  pleasure  which  it  takes  in  the  performance  of  its 
duty, for  delights  of  amuch  inferior  andau  unprofitable  natuie. 

10  The  last  use  which  I  shall  make  of  this  remarkable  pro 
perty  in  human  nature,  of  being  delighted  with  those  actions  to 
which  it  is  accustomed,  is,  to  show  how  absolutely  necessaiy 
it  is  for  us  to  gain  habits  of  virtue  in  this  life,  if  we  would  enjoy 
the  pleasures  of  the  next.  The  state  of  bliss  we  call  heaven, 
will  not  be  capable  of  affecting  those  minds  which  are  not  thus 
qualified  for  it ;  we  must,  in  this  world,  gain  a  relish  for  truth  and 
virtue,  if  we  would  be  able  to  taste  that  knowledge  and  perfec- 
tion, which  are  to  makeus  happy  in  the  next.  Theseedsoftho.se 
spiritual  joys  and  raptures,  which  are  to  rise  up  and  flourish  in 
the  soulto  all  eternity,  must  be  planted  in  itduring  this  its  present 
state  of  probation*  In  short,  heaven  is  not  to  be  looked  upon 
only  as  tiie  reward,  but  as  the  natui^al  eflect  of  a  religious  liie. 

SECTION  XVI. 

The  pleasures  resulting  from  a  proper  use  of  our  Faculties, 
HAPPY  that  man,  who,  unembarrassed  by  vulgar  cares 
inaster  of  himself,  his  time,  and  fortune,  spends  his  time  in 


Chap.  IX.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


151 


waking  himself  wiser;  and  his  fortune^ in  making  others 
(and  therefore  himself)  happier;  who,  as  the  will  aiui  un- 
derstanding are  the  two  ennobling  faculties  of  tiie  soul,  thinks 
himself  not  complete,  till  his  understanding  is  beautified  with 
the  valuable  furniture  of  knowledge,  as  well  as  his  will  en- 
riched with  every  virtue  ;  who  has  furnished  himself  with  all 
the  advantages  to  relish  solitude,  and  enliven  conversation ; 
who,  when  serious,  is  not  sullen;  and  when  cheerful,  not 
indiscreetly  gay ;  whose  ambition  is  not  to  be  admired  for  a 
false  glare  of  greatness,  but  to  be  beloved  for  the  gentle  and 
sober  lustre  of  his  wisdom  and  goodness. 

2  The  greatest  minister  of  state  has  not  more  bualness  to 
do,  in  a  public  capacity,  than  he,  and  indeed  every  other 
man  may  find  in  the  retired  and  still  scenes  of  life.  Even 
in  his  private  walks,  everything  that  is  visible  convinces  him, 
there  is  present  a  Being  invisible.  Aided  by  natural  philoso- 
phy, he  reads  plain,  legible  traces  of  the  Divinity  in  every 
thing  he  meets :  he  sees  the  Deity  in  every  tree,  as  well  as 
Moses  did  in  the  burning  bush,  though  not  in  so  glaring  a 
manner  :  and  when  he  sees  him^  he  adores  him  with  the  tri- 
bute of  a  grafceful  heart.  seed. 

SECTION  XVII. 

Description  of  Candour, 

TRUE  candour  is  altogether  differeirt  from  that  guarded, 
inoflfensive  language,  and  that  studied  openness  oi'  behaviour 
which  we  so  frequently  meet  with  among  men  of  the  world. 
Smiling)  very  often,  is  the  aspect,  and  smooth  are  the  words 
of  those,  who,  inwardly,  are  the  most  ready  to  think  evil  of 
others.  That  candour  which  is  a  Christian  virtue,  consists, 
not  in  fairness  of  speech,  but  in  fairness  of  heart. 

2  It  may  want  the  blandishment  of  external  courtesy,  but 
supplies  its  place  with  a  humane  and  generous  liberality  of  sen- 
timent. Its  manners  are  uiraffected,  and  its  proftssions  cor- 
dial. Exempt,  on  one  hand,  from  the  dark  jealousy  of  a 
suspicious  mind,  H  is  no  less  removed,  on  the  other,  from  that 
easy  credulity  which  is  imposed  on  by  every  specious  pretence. 
It  is  perfectly  consistent  with  extensive  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  with  due  attention  to  our  own  safety. 

3  In  that  various  intercourse,  which  we  are  obliged  to  carry 
on  with  persons  of  every  different  character,  suspicion,  to  a 
certain  degree,  is  a  necessai'y  guard.  It  is  only  when  it  ex- 
ceeds the  bounds  of  prudent  caution,  that  it  degenerates  into 
vice.  There  is  a  pr  »per  mean  between  undistinguished  cre- 
dulity, and  universa  jealousy,  which  a  sound  uuderstaading 


V^ 


ml, 


**^si! 


ifl; 


:i  ■  tr 


152 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I 


C'llM** 


tiiscerns,    and   ^}Jch  the  man  of  candour  studies  to  pre- 
serve. 

4  He  makes  allowance  for  the  mixture  of  evil  with  good, 
tvhich  is  to  be  fou.d  in  every  human  character.  He  expects 
none  to  he  faultless,  and  he  is  unwilling  to  believe  that  there 
is  kny  without  some  commendable  qualities.  In  the  midst  of 
many  defects,  he  can  discover  a  virtue.  Under  the  inilucnce  of 
personal  resentment,  he  can  be  just  to  the  nn^ni  of  an  enemy. 

5  He  never  lends  an  open  ear  to  those  defamatory  reports 
and  dark  suggestions,  which,  among  the  tribes  of  the  ce!iso- 
rious,  circulate  with  so  much  rapidity,  and  meet  with  so  ready 
acceptance.  He  is  not  hasty  to  judge ;  and  he  re(|uires  full 
evidence  before  he  will  condemn. 

6  As  long  as  an  action  can  be  ascribed  to  different  motives, 
he  holds  it  as  no  mark  of  sagacity  to  impute  it  always  to  the 
fTorst.  Where  there  is  just  ground  for  doubt,  he  keeps  his 
judgment  undecided ;  and,  during  the  period  of  suspense, 
leans  to  the  most  charitable  construction  which  an  action  can 
bear*  When  he  must  condemn,  he  condemns  with  regret ; 
«nd  without  those  aggravations  which  the  severity  of  others 
adds  to  the  crim€.  He  listens  calmly  to  the  apology  of  the  of- 
fender, and  readily  admits  every  extenuating  circumstance, 
lyhich  equity  can  suggest. 

7  How  niuch  soever  he  may  blame  the  principles  of  anv 
0^t  or  party,  he  nevor  confounds,  under  one  general  censure,'' 
stll  who  belong  to  that  party  or  sect.  He  charges  them  not 
with  such  consequences  of  their  tenets,  as  they  refuse  and 
disavow.  From  one  wrong  opinion,  he  does  not  infer  the 
•ubversion  of  all  sound  principles  ;  .nor  from  one  bad  action 
conclude  that  all  regard  to  conscience  is  overthrown. 

8  When  he  "  beholds  the  mote  in  his  brother^s  eye,"  he 
remembers  "  the  beam  in  his  own."  He  commiserates  hu- 
man frailty,  and  judges  of  others  according  to  the  principles, 
by  which  ht  would  think  it  reasonable  that  they  should  judge 
of  him.  In  a  word,  he  views  men  and  actions  in  the  clear 
BUnghine  of  charity  and  good  nature;  and  not  in  that  dark  and 
•ullcn  shade  which  jealousy  and  party  spirit  throw  over  all 
iJbwcters.  BLAIR. 

SECTION  XVIII. 

On  the  imperfection  of  that  Happiness  which  rests  solely  on 

worldly  Pleasures,     ' 

THE  vanity  of  human  pleasures,  is  a  topic  which  might  be 
embellbhed  with  the  pomp  of  much  description.  But  I  shall 
mndlowilj  wM  exaggeration,  and  only  point  out  a  threefold 


ClI^^.  IX.       PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


153 


vanity  in  human  life,  which  every  impartial  observer  cannot  Imt 
atlrnit;  disappointment  in  pursuit, dissatisfaction  in  enjuyment, 
uncertainty  in  possession. 

2  Fii'st,  disappointment  in  pursuit.  When  we  look  around 
us  on  the  world,  we  every  where  beht  ,  a  busy  multitude,  in- 
tent on  the  prosecution  of  various  designs,  which  their  wanls 
or  desires  have  suggested.  We  behold  them  employing  every 
method  which  ingenuity  can  devise ;  some  the  patience  of  in- 
dustry, some  the  boldness  of  enterprise,  others  the  dexterity  of 
stratagem,  in  order  to  compass  their  ends. 

3  Of  this  incessant  stir  and  activity,  what  is  the  tVuIt  ?  in 
comparison  of  the  crowd  who  have  toiled  in  vain,  how  small 
Is  the  nu  mber  of  the  successful !  Or  rather,  where  is  tlie  man 
who  will  declare  chat  in  '^very  point  he  has  completed  his  plan, 
and  attained  his  utmost  wish  ? 

4  No  extent  of  human  abilities  has  been  able  to  discover  a 
path  which,  in  any  line  of  life,  leads  unerringly  to  success. 
'<  The  race  is  not  alwajrs  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the 
strong,  nor  riches  to  men  of  understanding."  We  may  form 
our  plans  with  the  most  profound  sagacity,  and  with  the  most 
vigilant  caution  may  guard  against  dangers  on  every  side.  But 
some  unforeseen  occurrence  comes  across,  which  baffles  our 
wisdom,  and  lays  our  labours  in  the  dust.      « 

5  Were  such  disappointments  confined  to  those  who  aspiro 
at  engrossing  the  higher  departments  of  life,  the  misfortune 
would  be  less.  The  humiliation  of  the  mighty,  and  the  fall  of 
ambition  from  its  towering  height,  little  concern  the  bulk  of 
mankind.  These  are  objects  on  which,  as  on  distant  me- 
teors, they  gaze  frorfi  afar,  without  drawing  personal  instruc- 
ti<ui  from  events  so  much  above  them. 

6  But  alas  !  when  we  descend  into  the  regions  of  private 
life,  we  find  disappointment  and  blasted  hope  equally  prevalent 
there.  Neither  the  moderation  of  our  views,  nor  the  justice  of 
our  pretensions,  can  ensure  success.  But  '*  time  and  chance 
happen  to  all."  Against  the  streani  of  events  both  the  worthy 
and  the  undeserving  are  obliged  tostruggle ;  and  both  are  fre* 
quently  overborne  alike  by  the  current. 

7  Besides  disappointment  in  pursuit,  dissatisfaction  in  enjoy- 
ment is  a  farther  vanity,  to  which  the  human  state  is  subject. 
This  is  the  severest  of  all  mortifications;  after  having  been  suc- 
cessful in  the  pursuit,  to  be  baffled  in  the  enjoyment  itself.  Yet 
this  is  found  to  be  an  evil  still  more  general  than  the  former. 
Some  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  attain  what  they  have  pursued;but 
none  are  rendered  completely  happy  by  what  they  have  attained. 

8  Disappointed  hope  is  misery  ;  and  yet  successful  hope  i9 


:  ;¥;:: 


154 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  1. 


IIm 


only  imperfect  bliss.  Look  through  all  the  ranks  of  mankind. 
Examine  the  condition  of  those  who  appear  most  prosperous; 
and  you  will  find  that  they  are  never  just  what  they  desire  to 
be.  If  retired,  they  languish  for  action  ;  if  busy,  they  com- 
plain of  fatigue.  If  in  middle  life,  they  are  impatient  for  dis- 
tinction :  if  in  high  stations,  they  sigh  after  freedom  and  ease. 
Something  is  still  wanting  to  that  plenitude  of  satisfaction, 
which  they  expected  to  acquire.  Together  with  every  wish 
that  is  gratified,  a  new  demand  arises.  One  voiu  opens  in  the 
heart,  as  another  is  filled.  On  wishes,  w  ishes  grow ;  and  to 
the  end,  it  is  rather  the  expectation  of  what  they  have  not, 
than  the  enjoyment  of  what  they  have,  which  occupies  and 
interests  the  most  successful. 

9  This  dissatisfaction  in  the  midst  of  human  pleasure,  springs 
partly  from  the  nature  of  our  enjoyments  themselves,  and  part- 
ly from  circumstances  which  corrupt  them.  No  worldly  en- 
joyments are  adequate  to  the  high  desires  and  powers  of  an 
immortal  spirit.  Fancy  paints  them  at  a  distance  with  splen- 
did colours  ;  but  possession  unveils  the  fallacy.  The  eager- 
ness of  passion  bestows  upon  them,  at  first,  a  brisk  and  lively 
relish.  But  it  is  their  fate  always  to  pall  by  familiarity,  and 
sometimes  to  pass  from  satiety  into  disgust. 

10  Happy  woyld  the  poor  man  think  himself,  if  he  could 
enter  on  all  the  pleasures  of  the  rich  ;  and  happy  for  a  short 
time  he  might  be  ;  but  before  he  had  long  contemplated  and 
admired  his  state,  his  possessions  would  seem  to  lessen,  and 
his  cares  would  grow. 

11  Add  to  the  unsatisfying  nature  of  our  pleasures,  the  at- 
tending circumstances  which  never  fail  to  corrupt  them.  For, 
such  as  they  are,  they  are  at  no  time  possessed  unmixed.  To 
human  lips  it  is  not  given  to  taste  the  cup  of  pure  joy.  When 
external  circumstances  show  fairest  to  the  world,  the  envied 
man  groans  in  private  under  his  own  burden.  Some  vexation 
disquiets,  some  passion  corrodes  him  ;  some  distress,  either 
felt  or  feared,  gnaws,  like  a  worm,  the  root  of  his  felicity. 
When  there  is  nothing  from' without  to  disturb  the  prosperous, 
a  secret  poison  operates  within.  For  worldly  happiness  ever 
tends  to  destroy  itself,  by  corrupting  the  heart.  It  fosters  the 
loose  and  the  violent  passions.  It  engenders  noxious  habits; 
and  taints  the  mind  with  false  delicacy,  which  makes  it  feel  a 
thousand  unreal  evils.  ;:  ? 

12  But  put  the  case  in  the  most  favourable  light.  Lay  aside 
from  human  pleasures  both  disappointment  in  pursuit,  and  de- 
ceitfulness  in  enjoyment ;  suppose  them  to  be  fully  attainable, 
and  completely  satisfactory ;  still  there  remains  to  be  considered 


gain, 
13 


CuAr.  IX.         PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


155 


the  vanity  of  uncertain  possession  and  short  duration.  Were 
there  in  worldly  things  any  fixed  point  of  security  which  we  could 
gain,  the  mind  would  then  have  some  basis  on  which  to  rest. 

13  But  our  condition  is  such,  that  every  thi]%  wavers  and 
totters  around  us.  "  Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow ;  for 
thou  knowest  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth."  It  is  much 
if,  during  its  course,  thou  hearest  not  of  somewhat  to  disquiet 
or  alarm  thee.  For  life  never  proceeds  long  in  a  uniform 
train.     It  is  continually _v3j:ifid-fey  ttnexpected^v«j;its, 

14  The  seeds  tiflJteration  are  every  where  sown;  and  the  ^ 
sunshine  of  prosperity  commonly  accelerates  their  growth.  If 
our  enjoyments  are  numerous,  we  lie  more  open  on  different 
sides  to  be  wounded.  If  we  have  possessed  them  long,  we 
have  greater  cause  to  dread  an  approaching  change.  By  slow 
degrees  prosperity  rises ;  but  rapid  is  the  progress  of  evil.  It 
requires  no  preparation  to  bring  it  forward. 

15  The  edifice  which  it  cost  much  time  and  labour  to  erect, 
one  inauspicious  event,  one  sudden  blow,  can  level  with  the  dust. 
Even  supposing  the  accidents  of  life  to  leave  us  untouched,  hu- 
man bliss  must  still  be  transitory ;  for  man  changes  of  himself. 
No  course  of  enjoyment  can  delight  us  long.  What  amused 
our  youth,  loses  its  charm  in  m^iturer  age.  As  years  advance, 
our  powers  are  blunted,  and  our  pleasurable  feelings  decline. 

16  The  silent  lapse  of  time  is  ever  carrying  somewhat  from 
us,  till  at  length  the  period  comes,  when  all  must  be  swept 
away.  The  prospect  of  this  termination  of  our  labours  and 
pursuits,  is  sufficient  to  mark  our  state  with  vanity.  "  Our 
days  are  a  hand's  breadth,  and  our  age  is  as  nothing."  With- 
in that  little  space  is  all  our  enterprise  bounded.  We  crowd 
it  with  toils  and  cares,  with  contention  and  strife.  We  pro- 
ject great  designs,  entertain  high  hopes,  and  then  leave  our 
plans  unfinished,  and  sink  into  oblivion. 

17  This  much  let  it  suffice  to  have  said  concerning  the  vani* 
ty  of  the  world.  That  too  much  has  not  been  said,  must  ap- 
pear to  every  one  who  considers  how  generally  mankind  lean 
to  the  opposite  side  ;  and  how  often,  by  undue  attachment  to 
the  present  state,  they  both  feed  the  most  sinful  passions,  and 
"  pierce  themselves  through  with  many  sorrows."       blair.. 

SECTION  XIX. 

What  are  the  real  and  solid  enjoyments  of  Human  Life, 

IT  must  be  admitted,  that  unmixed  and  complete  happi- 
ness is  unknown  on  earth.  No  regulation  of  conduct  can 
altogether  prevent  passions  from  disturbing  our  peace,  and 
misfortunes  from  wounding  our  heart.     But '  ^er  this  conce ,- 


r 


15tt 


TUE  ENGLISH  HEADER. 


Part  I. 


,1' 


!l 


8iOQ  is  made,  will  it  follow,  that  there  is  no  object  on  eartli 
which  deserves  ourpursuit^or  that  all  enjoy tnetil becomes  con. 
temntlMfe ^>ich  is  not  perfect?  Let  us  survey  our  state  with 
an  impsyilrar  eye,  and  be  just  to  the  various  gifts  of  Heaven. 

2  How  vain  soever  this  life,  considered  in  itself,  may  be, 
the  comforts  and  hopes  of  religion  are  suHicient  to  give  soli. 
dity  to  the  enjoyments  of  the  righteous.  In  the  exercise  of 
good  affections,  and  the  testimony  of  an  approving  con- 
science ;  in  the  sense  of  peace  and  reconciliation  witii  God, 
through  the  great  Redeemer  of  mankind  ;  in  the  firm  conlj- 
dence  of  being  conducted«through  all  the  trials  of  life,  by  in- 
finite Wisdom  and  Goodness ;  and  in  the  joyful  pro.-jpect  of 
arriving,  in  tiie  end,  at  immortal  felicity,  they  possess  a  hap- 
piness which,  descending  from  a  purer  aid  more  perfect  re- 
gion tlian  tliis  world,  partakes  not  of  its  vanity. 

3  Besides  the  enjoyments  peculiarto  religion,  there  are  other 
pleasures  of  our  present  state,  uhich,  though  of  an  inferior  or- 
der, must  not  be  overlooked  in  the  estimate  of  human  life.  It 
ia  necessary  to  call  the  attention  to  these,  in  order  to  check  that 
repining  and  unthaukiul  spirit  to  which  man  is  always  too  prone. 

4  Some  degree  of  importance  must  be  allowed  to  the  com- 
forts of  health,  to  the  innocc^t  gratifications  of  sense,  and  to 
the  entertainment  afibrded  us  by  all  the  ijeautiful  scenes  of  na- 
ture ;  some  to  the  pui*suits  and  harmless  amusements  of  'Social 
life  ;  and  more  to  the  internal  enjoyments  of  thought  and  re- 
flection, aiul  to  the  pleasures  of  affectionate  intercourse  with 
those  whom  we  love.  These  comforts  are  often  held  in  too 
low  estimation,  merely  because  they  are  ordinary  and  com- 
mon; although  tiiat  is  the  circumstance  which  ought,  in  rea* 
son,  to  enhance  their  value.  They  lie  open,  in  some  degree, 
to  all;  extend  through  every  rank  of  life ;  and  fill  up  agreeably 
many  of  those  spaces  in  our  present  existence  which  are  not 
occupied  with  higher  objects,  or  with  serious  cares. 

6  From  this  representation,  it  appears,  that  notwithstand- 
ing the  vanity  of  the  world,  a  considerable  degree  of  comfort 
is  attainable  in  the  present  state.  Let  the  recollection  of  this 
serve  to  reconcile  us  to  our  condition,  and  to  repress  tiie  arro- 
gance of  complaints  a^id  murmurs. — What  art  thou,  O  son 
of  man!  who,  having  sprung  but  yesterday  out  of  the  dust, 
darest  to  lift  up  thy  voice  against  thy  Maker,  and  to  arraign 
his  Providence,  because  all  things  are  not  oi'dered  according 
to  thy  wish? 

6  What  title  hast  thou  to  find  fault  with  the  order  of  tlie 
universe,  whose  lot  is  so  much  beyond  what  thy  virtue  or  me* 
rit  gave  thee  ground  to  claim!  Is  it  nothing  to  thee  to  hav^ 


Chap.  IX.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


167 


been  introduced  into  this  magnificent  world  ;  to  have  been  ad« 
mitted  as  a  spectator  of  the  Divine  wisdom  and  works ;  and  ta 
have  had  access  to  all  the  comforts  which  nature,  with  a  boun- 
tiful hand,  has  poured  forth  around  thee?  Are  all  the  hours  for* 
rotten  which  tliou  hast  passed  in  case,  in  cmnplacency,  or  joy  ? 
7  Is  it  a  small  favour  in  thy  eyes,  that  tlie  hand  of  Divine 
Mercy  has  been  stretched  forth  to  aid  tliee ;  aad,  if  thou  re- 
ject not  its  profl'ered  assistance,  is  ready  to  conduct  thee  to  a 
happier  slate  of  existence  ?  VVhen  thou  comparest  thy  condi- 
tion with  thy  desert,  blush,  and  be  ashamed  of  thy  con»plaint»<. 
Be  silent,  be  grateful,  and  adore.  Receive  with  thankfulness 
the  blessings  which  are  allowed  thee.  Revere  tliat  govern- 
ment  which  at  present  refuses  thee  more.  Rest  in  this  con- 
clusion, that  though  there  are  evils  in  the  world,  its  Creator 
is  wise  and  good,  and  has  been  bountiful  to  thee.  ulair. 

SECTION  XX. 

Scale  of  Beings, 

Tf  lOUGH  there  is  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  contemplathig 
the  material  world,  by  which  I  mean,  that  system  of  bodies 
into  which  nature  has  so  curiously  wrought  the  mass  of  dead 
matter,  with  the  several  relations  that  those  bodies  bear  to  one 
another ;  there  is  still,  methinks,  something  more  wonderful 
and  surprising,  in  contemplations  on  the  world  of  life  ^  by  which 
I  intend,  all  those  animals  with  which  every  part  of  the  uni- 
verse is  furnished.  The  material  world  is  only  the  shell  of 
the  universe:  the  world  of  life  are  its  inhabitants. 

2  If  we  consider  Uiose  parts  of  the  material  world,  which  lie 
the  nearest  to  us,  and  are  therefore  subject  to  our  observation, 
and  inquiries,  it  is  amazing  to  consider  the  infinity  of  animals 
with  which  they  are  stocked.  Every  part  of  matter  is  peopled ; 
every  green  leaf  swarms  with  inhabitants.  There  is  scarcely  a 
single  humour  in  the  body  of  a  man,  or  of  any  oilier  animal, 
in  which  our  glasses  do  not  discover  myriads  of  living  creatures. 
We  find,  even  in  the  most  solid  bodies,  as  in  marble  itself,  m» 
numerable  cells  and  cavities,  which  are  crowded  with  imper- 
ceptible inhabitants,  too  little  for  the  naked  eye  to  discover. 

3  On  the  other  hand,  if  we  look  into  the  more  bulky  parts 
of  nature,  we  see  the  seas,  lakes,  and  rivers,  teeming  witK 
numberless  kinds  of  living  creatures.  We  find  every  moun- 
tain and  marsh,  wilderness  and  wood,  pfentifulh  stocked  witjk 
birds  and  beasts;  and  every  part  of  matter  aHording  proper 
necessaries  and  conveniences,  for  the  livelihood  of  the  qm^«^ 
tudes  which  inhabit  it.  | 

4  The  author  of  "the  Plurality  of  World3,»*<liraws  a  very 
♦  •      .    .  O  i 


i^ 


158 


THE  ENGI.ISII  IlKADEU. 


Pa  FIT  I. 


jfood  arj^ument  from  this  con.siflenitioii,  for  tli»^  ppoplin^f  of 
every  planet;  as  indetnl  it  sfeins  very  prohahle,  from  the  an. 
alogy  of  reason,  tliat  if  no  part  of  matler,  witii  uliicli  we  .uv. 
acquainted,  lien  waste  and  useletus,  thosi;  t;reater  liodies,  which 
are  at  such  a  distance  fr»)in  us,  are  not  desert  and  unpeo|deil; 
but  rather,  tliat  they  are  furnished  with  beings  aihipted  to  llieir 
respective  situations. 

5  Existence  is  a  blessing  to  those  beings  ordy  which  an; 
endowed  with  perception ;  and  is  in  a  manner  tlirown  away 
upon  dead  matter,  any  farther  tlian  as  it  is  subservient  to  heinfis 
which  are  conscious  of  their  existence.  Accordingly  wo  fnul, 
from  the  bodies  whicli  lie  under  our  obseiTation,  tliat  mailer  i^ 
only  made  as  tiie  basis  and  supp»)rt  of  animals;  and  that  there 
is  no  more  of  the  one  than  what  is  ncce^ssary  for  the  existence 
of  the  other. 

6  Infinite  Goodness  is  of  so  communicative  a  nature,  that  it 
seems  to  delight  in  conferring  existence  upon  every  deirree  of 
perceptive  being.  As  this  is  a  speculation,  which  I  have  of- 
ten pursued  with  great  pleasure  to  myself,  1  shall  eidarge  !*ur- 
ther  upon  it,  by  considering  that  part  of  the  scale  of  beings, 
which  comes  within  our  knowledge. 

7  There  are  some  living  creatures,  which  are  raised  but  just 
above  dead  matter.  To  mention  only  that  species  of  shell-iish, 
which  is  formed  in  the  fashion  ol  a  cone  ;  that  grows  to  thf» 
ijurface  of  several  rocks;  and  immediately  dies,  on  being  se- 
vered from  the  place  where  it  grew  There  are  many  other 
creatures  but  one  remove  from  these,  which  have  no  other 
sense  than  that  of  feeling  and  taste.  Others  have  still  an  ad- 
ditional one  of  hearing;  others  of  smell ;  and  others  of  sight. 

8  It  is  wonderful  to  observe,  by  what  a  gradual  progress  the 
world  of  life  advances,  through  a  prodigious  variety  of  species, 
before  a  creature  is  formed  that  is  complete  in  all  its  senses : 
and  even  among  these,  there  is  such  a  diderent  degree  of  per- 
fectijon,  in  tte  sense  which  one  animal  enjoys  beyond  what  ap- 
pears in  another,  that  though  the  sense  in  ditferent  animals  is 
distinguished  by  the  same  common  denomination,  it  seems  al- 
most of  a  diferent  nature. 

9  If,  aftei  this,  we  look  into  the  several  inward  perfections 
of  cunning  aad  sagacity,  or  what  we  generally  call  instinct,  we 
find  them  rising,  after  the  s^me  manner,  imperceptibly  one  above 
another ;  and  receiving  additional  improvements,  according  to 
the  species  in  Tvhich  they  are  implanted.  This  progress  in  na- 
ture is  so  very  gradual,  that  the  most  perfect  of  an  inferior  spe- 
cies, comes  \6ry  near  to  the  most  imperfect  of  that  which  Is 
immediatelv  .^bove  it. 


iJ 


Chap.  IX.         PUOMISCLOl'S  PIKCKS. 


l.W 


10  The  rxiiljpr.nt'.'iul  overflouiuu'uoodiHvss  of  tlu'Supi'onH" 
lk*iiis»  ^vhose  mercy  exteinl««  to  all  Ium  works,  U  plainly  pe«Mi, 
as  I  have  before  liiuU'd,  in  liis  havinu;  made  no  svvy  little  mat- 
ter, at  least  what  falls  within  our  kiiowledire,  that  does  not 
swarm  with  life.  Nor  is  his  }:;oodness  iess  seen  in  the  diversi- 
ty, than  in  the  multitude  ')f  iJving  erea'nrea.  Had  he  made  hut 
one  species  of  animals,  rone  rf  the  .-est  would  have  enjoyed  the 
happinesfl  of  existence :  heha  •  then'fore,  sptcifted,  in  his  crea- 
tion, every  decree  of  life,  every  ''apacit'-  of 'eini^. 

11  The  whole  chasm  of  nulure,  fro;  a  plant  to  a  man,  is 
filled  up  with  divers  kinds  of  creatu.  •..',  r'siiijif  one  after  ano- 
ther, by  an  ascent  so  oeutle  an*'  •*rjy,  that  thr  i'ttle  transitions 
and  deviations  from  one  sj)eci'*s  t(  another,  are  almost  insen- 
Bible.  This  intermediate  space  is  so  well  husbj«  v^!^d  and 
matraged,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  decree  of  perceptioH,  which 
does  not  appear  in  some  one  purt  of  the  world  of  life.  Is  the 
goodness,  or  the  wisdom  of  the  ! divine  Being,  more  manifest- 
ed in  this  his  proceeding? 

12  There  is  a  conse(pience,  besides  those  I  have  already 
mentioned,  which  seems  very  naturally  deducible  from  the 
foregoing  considerations.  If  the  scale  of  being  rises  by  so  re- 
gular a  progress,  ^o  high  as  man,  we  may,  by  parity  of  reason, 
suppose,  that  it  sldl  ;MMceeds  gradually  through  those  beings 
which  are  of  a  superior  nature  to  him ;  since  there  is  infinitely 
greater  space  and  room  for  different  degrees  of  j)erfection,  be- 
tween the  Supreme  lieing  and  man,  than  between  man  and 
the  most  de jjicable  insect. 

1.3  In  this  great  system  of  being,  there  is  no  creature  90 
wonderful  in  its  nature,  and  which  s(>  much  desei*ves  our  par- 
ticular attention,  as  man ;  who  fills  up  the  middle  space  be- 
tween the  animal  and  the  intellectual  nature,  the  visible  and 
the  invisible  world ;  and  w  ho  is  that  link  in  the  chain  of  being, 
which  forms  the  connection  betw  een  both.  So  that  he  who, 
in  one  respect,  is  associated  with  angels  and  archangels  and 
may  look  upon  a  being  of  infinite  perfection  as  his  father,  and 
the  highest  order  of  spirits  as  his  brethren,  may,  in  another  re- 
spect, say  to  "corruption,  thou  art  my  lather,"  and  to  the 
worm,  "thou  art  my  ny)therand  my  sister."  addison. 

SECTION  XXI. 

Trust  hi  the  care  of  Providence  recommended, 

MAN,  considered  in  himself,  is  a  very  helpless,  and  a  very 

wretched  bcir.v.      He  is  subject  every  moment  to  the  greatest 

calamities  anJ  misfortunes.      He  is  beset  with  dangers  on  all 

Bides;  and  may  become  unhappy  by  numberless  casualties, 


Mr 

|.4     •  4 


I  ,  il 

3*  j 


160 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Paut  I. 


M  '.'' 


Ijlji 


H! 


i^Mi: 


V  u 


ir! 


which  he  could  not  foresee,  nor  have  prevented  had  he  Ture- 
seen  them. 

2  It  is  our  comfort,  while  we  areohnoxious  to  so  many  acci- 
dents, that  we  are  under  the  care  of  one  who  diiects  contin- 
gencies, and  has  in  his  hands  the  management  of  every  tiling' 
niat  is  capable  of  annoying  or  offending  us ;  who  knows  the 
assistance  we  stand  in  need  of,  and  is  always  ready  to  bcdtow 
it  on  those  who  ask  it  of  him. 

3  The  natural  homage,  which  such  a  creature  owes  to  so 
infinitely  wise  and  good  a  Being,  is  a  firm  reliance  on  him  for 
the  blessings  and  conveniences  of  life  ;  and  an  habitual  trust  ia 
him,  for  deliverance  out  of  all  such  dangers  aiid  dlHicultius  ud 
may  befal  us. 

4  The  man  who  always  lives  in  this  disposition  of  mind,  hiia 
not  the  same  dark  and  melancholy  views  of  human  nature,  aj 
he  who  considers  himself  abstractedly  from  this  relation  to 
the  Supreme  Being.  At  the  same  time  that  he  reflects  upon 
his  own  weakness  and  imperfection,  he  comfoits  himself  with 
thtt^m^ntemplation  of  those  divine  attributes,  which  are  em- 
ployed for  his  safety,  and  his  welfare.  He  finds  his  want  of 
foresight  made  up,  by  the  omniscience  of  him  who  is  his  sup- 
port. He  is  not  sentrt-ie  of  his  own  want  of  strength,  when 
he  knows  that  his  helper  is  Almighty. 

6  In  short,  the  person  who  has  a  firm  trust  in  the  Supremo 
Being,  is  powerful  in  his  power,  wise  by  his  wisdom,  happy  1  v 
his  happiness.  He  reaps"  tlie  benefit  of  every  divine  attii- 
bute;  and  loses  his  own  insufficiency  in  the  fulhiCcS  of  infinite 
perfection.  To  make  our  lives  more  easy  to  us,  we  are  com- 
manded to  put  our  trust  in  him,  who  is  thus  able  to  relieve  and 
succour  us;  the  Divine  Goodness  having  made  such  a  reliance 
a  duty,  notwithstanding  we  should  have  been  miserable,  had  it 
been  forbidden  us. 

6  Among  several  motives,  which  might  be  made  use  of  to 
recommend  this  duty  to  us,  I  shall  only  take  notice  of  those 
that  follow.  The  first  and  strongest  is,  that  we  are  promised 
he  will  not  fail  those  who  put  their  trust  in  him.  But  without 
considering  the  supernatural  blessing  which  accompanies  this 
duty,  we  may  observe,  that  it  has  a  natural  tendency  to  its  own 
reward ;  or,  in  other  words,  that  this  firm  trust  and  confidence 
in  the  great  Disposer  of  all  things,  contribute  very  much  to  the 
getting  clear  of  any  affliction,  or  to  the  bearing  of  it  manfully. 

7  A  person  who  believes  he  has  his  succour  at  hand,  and 
jthat  he  acts  in  the  sight  of  his  friend,  oilen  exerts  himself  be- 
yond his  abilities;  and  does  wonders,  that  are  not  to  be  matched 
by  one  who  is  not  auunated  with  such  a  confidence  of  success- 


Chap.  IX.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


161 


Trust  in  the  assistance  of  an  Almightf  Being,  naturaRy  pro- 
duces patience,  liope,  cheerfulness,  and  all  other  dispoaitions 
of  mind,  which  alleviate  those  calamities  that  tve  are  not  able 
to  remove. 

8  The  practice  of  this  virtue  administers  great  comfort  to 
the  mind  of  man,  in  times  of  poverty  and  alHiction;  but  most 
of  all,  in  the  hour  of  death.  When  the  soul  is  hovering,  in  the 
last  moments  of  its  separation;  when  it  is  justentcring  on  ano- 
ther state  of  existence,  to  converse  with  scenes,  and  objects, 
and  companions,  that  are  alto^rethei*  new  ;  what  can  support 
her  under  such  tremblings  of  thought,  such  fear,  such  anxiety, 
such  apprehensions,  but  the  casting  of  all  her  cares  upon  HiM» 
who  first  gave  her  being;  who  has  conducted  her  through  one 
stage  of  it ;  and  who  will  be  always  present,  to  guide  and  com- 
fort her  in  her  progress  through  eternity  addisok. 

SECTION  XXII. 

Piety  and  Gratitude  enlivtn  Prosperity. 

PIETY,  and  gratitude  to  God,  contribute,  in  a  high  degree, 
to  enliven  prosperity.  Gratitude  is  a  pleasing  emotion.  Tho 
sense  of  being  distinguished  by  the  kindness  of  another,  glad- 
dens the  heart,  warms  it  with  reciprocal  affection,  and  gives 
to  any  possession  which  is  agreeable  in  itself,  a  double  relish 
from  its  being  the  gift  of  a  friend.  Favours  conferred  by  men, 
I  acknowledge,  may  prove  burdensome.  For  human  virtue  is 
never  perfect ;  and  sometimes  unreasonable  expectations  on 
the  one  side,  sometimes  a  mortifying  sense  of  dependence  on 
the  other,  corrode  in  secret  the  pleasures  of  benefits,  and  con* 
vert  the  obligations  of  friendship  into  grounds  of  jealousy. 

2  But  nothing  of  this  kind  can  affect  the  intercourse  of 
gratitude  with  Heaven.  Its  favours  are  wholly  disinterested ; 
and  with  a  gratitude  the  most  cordial  and  unsuspicious,  a  good 
man  looks  up  to  that  Almighty  Benefactor,  who  aims  at  no 
end  but  the  happiness  of  those  whom  he  blesses,  and  who  de- 
sires no  return  from  them,  but  a  devout  and  thankful  heart. 
While  others  can  trace  their  prosperity  to  no  higher  source 
than  a  concurrence  of  worldly  causes ;  and,  oflen,  of  mean 
or  trifling  incidents,  which  occasionally  favoured  their  de* 
signs ;  with  what  superior  satisfaction  does  tlie  servant  of 
God  remark  the  hand  of  that  gracious  Power  whach  Intfl 
raised  him  up;  which  hath  happily  conducted  him  duroufth 
the  various  steps  of  life,  and  crowned  him  with  the  most  &• 
vourable  distinction  beyond  his  equals? 

3  Let  us  farther  consider,  that  not  only  gratitu^te  for  die 
past,  but  a  rheerins:  sense  of  divine  fnvnnr  at  th»*  present,  en- 

03 


■Ti-        I     ^ 

m 


i^-^i 


162 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Paict  1. 


I'  I  >M 


ters  into  tne  pious  emotion.  Tiiey  are  only  the  virtuous,  who 
in  their  prosperous  clays  hear  this  voice  addressed  to  them, 
"Go  thy  way,  eat  thy  hread  with  joy,  and  drink  thy  wine 
with  a  cheerful  heart ;  for  God  now  accepteth  thy  works." 
He  who  is  the  author  of  their  prosperity,  gives  them  a  title  to 
enjoy,  with  complacency,  his  own  gift. 

4  While  bad  men  snatch  the  pleasures  of  the  world  as  by 
stealth,  without  countenance  from  the  great  Proprietor  of  the 
world,  the  righteous  sit  openly  down  to  the  feast  of  life,  un- 
der the  smile  of  approving  heaven.  No  guilty  fears  damp 
their  joys.  The  blessing  of  God  rests  upon  all  that  they  pos- 
sess ;  his  protection  surrounds  them  ;  and  hence,  "in  the  ha- 
bitations of  the  righteous,  is  found  the  voice  of  rejoiciuir  and 
salvation."  A  lustre  unknown  to  others,  invests,  in  their 
sight,  the  whole  face  of  nature. 

6  Their  piety  reflects  a  sunshine  from  heaven  upon  tlie 
prosperity  of  the  world ;  unites  in  one  point  of  view,  the 
smiling  aspect,  both  of  the  powei's  above,  and  of  the  objects 
below.  Not  only  have  they  as  full  a  relish  as  others,  for  tlie  in- 
nocent pleasures  of  life,  but,  moreover,  in  these  they  hold 
communion  with  their  divine  Benefiictor.  In  all  that  is  good 
or  fair,  they  trace  his  hand.  From  the  beauties  of  nature, 
from  the  improvements  of  art,  from  the  enjoyments  of  social 
life,  they  raise  their  aflectiSn  to  the  source  of  all  the  happiness 
which  surrounds  them;  and  thus  widen  the  sphere  of  their 
pleasures,  by  adding  intellectual,  and  spiritual,  to  earthly  joys. 

6  For  illustration  of  what  I  have  said  on  this  head,  remark 
that  cheer^l  enjoyment  of  a  prosperous  state,  which  king 
David  had  when  he  wrote  the  twenty-third  psahn  ;  and  com- 
pare the  highest  pleasures  of  the  riotous  sinner,  ^vitli  the  happy 
afid  satisfied  spirit  which  breathes  throughout  that  psalm. — In 
the  midst  of  the  splendour  of  royalty,  with  what  amiable  sim- 
plicity of  gratitude  does  he  look  up  to  the  Lord  as  "his  Shep- 
herd ;"  happier  in  ascribing  all  his  success  to  Divine  favour, 
than  to  the  policy  of  his  councils,  or  to  the  force  of  his  arms!* 

7  How  many  instances  of  divine  goodness  arose  before 
him  in  pleasing  remembrance,  when  with  such  relish,  he 
speaks  of  the  "  green  pastures  and  still  waters,  beside  which 
God  had  led  him ;  of  his  cup  which  he  had  made  to  overHow ; 
and  of  the  table  which  he  had  prepared  for  him  in  the  presence 
of  his  enemies!"  With  what  perfect  tranquillity  does  he  look 
forward  to  the  time  of  his  passing  through  "the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death ;"  unappalled  by  that  spectre,  whose  most 
distant  appearance  blasts  the  prosperity  of  sinners !  -He  fears 
no  evil,  as  long  as  "  the  rod  and  the  staff"  of  his  Divine  Hhep- 


Chap.  IX.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


163 


who 


herd  are  with  him  ;  and,  throujyh  all  the  unknown  periods  of 
this  and  of  future  existence,  commits  himself  to  his  guidance 
with  secure  and  triumphant  hope  :  '*  Surely  goodness  and 
mercy  will  follow  me  all  the  days  of  my  life  ;  and  I  aliall 
dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  for  ever." 

8  What  a  purified,  sentimental  eiijoyment  of  prosperity  is 
here  exhibited !.  How  different  from  that  gross  relish  of  world- 
ly pleasures,  which  belongs  to  those  who  behold  only  the  ter- 
restrial side  of  things  ;  who  raise  their  views  to  no  higher  ob- 
jects than  the  succession  of  human  c~ontingenries,  and  the 
weak  eflbrts  of  human  ability  ;  who  have  no  protector  or  pa- 
tron in  the  heavens,  to  enliven  their  prosperity,  or  to  warm 
their  hearts  with  gratitude  and  trust !  blaiu. 

SECTION  XXIII. 
Virtue,  when  deeply  rooted,  is  not  subject  to  tha  influence  of 

Fortune. 

THE  city  of  Sidon  having  surrendered  to  Alexander,  he. 
ordered  Hephestion  to  bestow  the  crown  on  him  whom  the  Si- 
donians  should  think  most  worthy  of  that  honour.  Hephestion 
being  at  that  time  resident  with  two  young  men  of  distinction, 
offered  them  the  kingdom;  but  they  refused  it,  telling  him 
that  it  was  contrary  to  the  laws  of  their  country,  to  admit  any 
one  to  tliat  honour,  who  was  not  of  the  royal  family. 

2  He  then,  having  expressed  his  admiration  of  their  disin- 
terested spirit,  desired  them  to  name  one  of  the  royal  race, 
%vho  might  remember  that  he  had  received  the  crown  through 
their  hands.  Overlooking  many,  who  would  have  been  ambi- 
tious of  this  high  honour,  they  made  choice  of  Abdolonymus, 
whose  singular  merit  had  rendered  him  conspicuous,  even  in 
the  vale  of  obscurity.  Though  remotely  related  to  the  roy- 
al family,  a  series  of  misfortunes  had  reduced  him  to  the  ne- 
cessity of  cultivating  a  garden,  for  a  small  stipend,  in  the 
suburbs  of  the  city. 

3  While  Abdolonymus  was  busily  employed  in  weeding  his 
garden,  the  two  friends  of  Hephestion,  bearing  in  their  hands 
the  ensigns  of  royalty,  approached  him,  and  saluted  him  king. 
They  informed  him  that  Alexander  had  appointed  liim  to  that 
office ;  and  required  him  immediately  to  exchange  his  rustic 
garb,  and  utensils  of  husbandry,  for  the  regal  robe  and  sceptre. 
At  the  same  time,  they  admonishetl  him,  when  he  should  be 
seated  on  the  throne,  and  have  a  nation  in  his  power,  not  to 
forget  the  humble  condition  from  which  he  liad  been  raised. 

4  All  this,  at  the  first,  appeared  to  Abdolonymus  as  an  illu- 
sion of  the  fancy,  or  an  insult  oHlered  to  his  poverty.  He  re- 
quested them  not  to  trouble  him  farllier  wilU  tiielr  iiapfrtinent 


v., 


W;! 


Il 


K  lb 


m 


I 


II 


i  > 


iii 


164 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Pakt  I. 


jests;  and  to  find  some  other  way  of  amusing  themselves, 
which  might  leave  him  in  the  peaceable  enjoyment  of  his  ob. 
scure  habitation. — At  length,  however,  they  convinced  him, 
that  they  were  serious  in  their  proposal;  and  prevailed  upon  him 
to  accept  the  regal  office,  and  accompany  them  to  the  palace. 
5  No  sooner  was  he  in  possession  of  the  government,  than 
pride  and  envy  created  him  enemies ;  who  whispered  their 
murmurs  in  every  place,  till  at  last  they  reached  the  ear  of 
Alexander.  He  commanded  the  new-elected  prince  to  be 
sent  for;  and  inquired  of  him,  with  what  temper  of  mind  he 
had  borne  his  poverty.  "  Would  to  Heaven,"  replied  Abdo- 
lonymus,  "  that  I  may  be  able  to  bear  my  crown  with  equal 
moderation  .  for  when  I  possessed  little,  I  wanted  nothing  : 
these  hands  supplied  me  with  whatever  I  desired."  From 
this  answer,  Alexander  formed  so  high  an  idea  of  his  wisdom, 
that  he  confirmed  the  choice  which  had  been  made  ;  and  an- 
nexed a  neighbouring  province  to  the  government  of  Sidon. 

QUINTUS    CURTIUS. 

SECTION  XXIV. 

The  Speech  of  FabriciuS;  a  Roman  ambassador^  to  king 
Pyrrhus,  who  attempted  to  bribe  him  to  his  interesfSj  by  the 
offer  of  a  great  sum  of  money, 

WITH  regard  to  my  poverty,  the  king  has,  indeed,  been 
justly  informed.  My  whole  estate  consists  in  a  house  of  but 
mean  appearance,  and  a  little  spot  of  ground  ;  from  which, 
by  my  o  wn  labour,  I  draw  my  support.  But  if,  by  any 
means,  thou  hast  been  persuaded  to  think  that  this  poverty 
renders  me  of  less  consequence  in  my  own  country,  or  in 
any  degree  unhappy,  thou  art  greatly  deceived. 

2  I  have  no  reason  to  complain  of  fortune :  she  supplies  me 
with  all  that  nature  requires  j  and  if  I  am  without  superfluities, 
I  am  also  free  from  the  desire  of  them.  With  vhese,  I  con- 
fess I  should  be  more  able  to  succour  the  necessitous,  the  only 
advantage  for  which  the  wealthy  are  to  be  envied  ;  but  small 
as  my  possessions  are,  I  can  still  contribute  something  to  the 
support  of  the  state,  and  the  assistance  of  my  friends. 

3  With  respect  to  honours,  my  country  places  me,  poor  as 
I  nm,  npon  a  level  with  the  richest :  for  Rome  knows  no 
qjialiiications  for  great  employments,  but  virtue  and  ability. 
She  appoints  me  to  officiate  in  the  most  august  ceremonies  of 
religion ;  she  intrusts  me  with  the  command  of  her  armies ; 
she  confides  to  my  care  the  most  important  negociations. 
My  poverty  does  not  lessen  the  weight  and  influence  of  my 
counsels  In  the  senate. 

4  The  Roman  people  honour  rr.r  for  that  very  poverty. 


Chap.  IX        PROMISCUOUS  PI£C£S. 


165 


which  king  Pynrhus  considers  as  a  disgrace.  They  know  the 
many  opportunities  I  have  had  to  enrich  mj'self,  without  cen- 
sure; they  are  convinced  of  my  disinterested  zeal  for  tlieir 
prosperity  :  and  if  I  have  any  thing  to  complain  of,  in  the  re- 
turn they  make  me,  it  is  only  tlie  excess  of  their  applaust?. 
What  value,  thfen,  can  I  put  upon  thy  gold  and  silver?  What 
king  can  add  any  thing  to  my  fortune?  Always  attentive  to 
discharge  the  duties  incumbent  upon  me,  I  have  a  mind  free 
from  self-reproach  ;  and  I  have  an  honest  fame. 

SECTION  XXV. 

Character  o/ James  I.  Icing  of  England, 

NO  prince,  so  little  enterprising  and  so  inoiTensive,  wns 
evci  bo  much  exposed  to  the  opposite  extremes  of  calumirr 
and  flattery,  of  satire  and  panegyric.  And  the  factions  wlii  h 
began  in  his  time,  being  still  continued,  have  made  his  clta- 
lactto*  be  as  much  disputed  to  this  day,  as  is  coramoniy  that 
oi' princes  who  are  our  contempomrlcs. 

2  Many  virtues,  however,  it  must  be  owned,  he  was  poi- 
sebsed  of ;  but  not  one  of  them  pure,  or  free  C:om  the  conta- 
gion of  the  neighbouring  vices.  Ilia  generosity  bordered  on 
profusion,  his  learning  on  pedantry,  bis  pacific  disposition  o>n 
pusillanimity,  his  wisdom  on  cunning,  bis  friendship  on  light 
fancy  and  boyish  fondness. 

3  While  he  imagined  that  he  was  only  maintaining  his  own 
authority,  he  may  perhaps  be  suspected  in  some  of  his  ac- 
tions, and  still  more  of  bis  pretensions,  to  have  encroached 
on  the  liberties  of  his  people.  While  he  endeavoured,  by  an 
exact  neutrality,  to  acquire  the  good-will  of  all  his  neighbours, 
he  was  able  to  preserve  fully  the  esteem  and  regard  of  none. 
His  capacity  was  considerable,  but  fitter  to  discourse  on  gene- 
ral maxims,  than  to  conduct  any  intricate  business. 

4  His  intentions  were  just,  but  more  adapted  to  the  con« 
duct  of  private  life,  than  to  the  government  of  kingdoms. 
Awkward  in  his  person  and  ungainly  in  bis  manners,  he  was 
ill  qualified  to  command  respect:  partial  and  undiscerning  in 
his  afiections,  he  was  little  fitted  to  acquire  general  love.  Of 
a  feeble  temper,  more  than  of  a  frugal  judgment ;  exposed  to 
our  ridicule  from  his  vanity,  but  exempt  from  our  hatred  by 
his  freedom  from  pride  and  arrogance. 

5  And,  upon  the  whole,  it  may  be  pronounced  of  his  cha- 
racter, that  all  his  qualities  were  sullied  with  weakness,  and 
embellished  by  humanity.  Political  courage  he  was  certain- 
ly devoid  of;  and  from  theiice  chiefly  is  derived  the  strong 
prejudice,  v'licii  prevails  agahkst  his  personal  bravery :  an 


Iv 


166 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  I, 


h    '  ^i;  ( 


inference,  however,  which  must  be  owned,  from  general  ex 
perience,  to  be  extremely  fallacious.  hume. 

SECTION  XXVI. 
Charles  V.  Emperor  of  Germany,  resigns  his  dominions, 
and  retires  from  the  World. 
THIS  great  emperor,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  and  in 
possession  .of  all  the  honours  which  can  flatter  the  heart  of 
man,  took  the  extraordinary  resolution,  to  resign  his  king- 
doms ;  and  to  withdraw  entirely  from  any  concern  in  business 
or  the  affairs  of  tliis  world,  in  order  that  lie  might  spend  the 
remainder  of  his  days  in  retirement  and  solitude. 

2  Though  it  requires  neither  deep  retlection,  nor  extraor- 
dinary discernment,  to  discover  that  the  state  of  royalty  is 
not  exempt  from  cares  and  disappointments;  though  most  of 
those  who  are  exalted  to  a  throne,  find  solicitude,  and  satiety, 
and  disgust,  to  be  their  perpetual  attendants,  in  that  envied 
pre-eminence;  yet,  to  descend  voluntarily  from  the  supreme 
to  a  subordinate  station,  aiid  to  relinquish  the  possession  of 
power  in  order  to  attain  the  enjoyment  of  happiness,  seems  to 
be  an  effort  too  great  for  the  human  mind. 

3  Several  instances,  indeed,  occur  in  history,  of  monarchs 
who  have  quitted  a  throne,  and  have  ended  their  days  in  re- 
tirement. But  they  were  either  weak  princes,  who  took  this 
resolution  rashly,  and  repented  of  it  as  soon  as  it  was  taken; 
or  unfortunate  princes,  from  whose  hands  some  strong  rival 
had  wrested  their  sceptre,  and  compelled  them  to  descend 
with  reluctance  into  a  private  station. 

3  Dioclesian  is,  perhaps,  the  only  prince  capable  of  hold- 
ing the  reins  of  government,  who  ever  resigned  them  from 
deliberate  choice;  and  who  continued,  duiing  many  years';  to 
enjoy  the  tranquillity  of  retirement,  without  fetching  one 
penitent  sigh,  or  casting  back  one  look  of  desire,  towards  the 
power  or  dignity  which  he  had  abandoned. 

5  No  wonder,  then,  that  Charleses  resignation  should  fill 
all  Europe  with  astonishment ;  and  give  rise,  both  among  his 
contemporaries,  and  among  the  historians  of  that  period,  to 
various  conjectures  concerning  the  motives  which  determined 
a  prince,  whose  ruling  passion  had  been  uniformly  the  love  of 
power,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six,  when  objects  of  ambition  operate 
with  full  force  on  the  mind,  and  are  pursued  with  the  greatest 
ardour,  to  take  a  resolution  so  singular  and  unexpected. 

6  The  emperor,  in  pursuance  of  his  determination,  having 
assembled  the  states  of  the  Low  Countries  at  Brussels,  seated 
himself,  for  the  last  time,  in  the  chair  of  state  .  on  one  side  of 
which  was  placed  his  soil,  and  on  the  other   his  sister  the 


ease,  an< 


Chap.  IX.        PllOMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


1&7 


queen  of  Hungary,  regent  of  the  Netherlantfs,  with  a  splen- 
did retinue  of  the  grandees  of  Spain  and  princes  of  the  em- 
pire standing  behind  him. 

7  The  president  of  the  council  of  Flanders,  by  his  com- 
mand, explained,  in  a  few  words,  his  intention  in  calling  this 
extraordinary  meeting  of  the  states.  He  then  read  the  instru- 
ment of  resignation,  by  which  Charles  surrendered  to  his  sou 
Philip  all  his  territories,  jurisdiction,  and  authority  in  the  Low 
Countries;  absolving  his  subjects  there  from  their  oath  of 
allegiance  to  him,  which  he  required  them  to  transfer  to  Phi- 
lip his  lawful  heir ;  and  to  serve  him  with  the  same  loyalty 
and  zeal  that  they  had  manifested,  during  so  long  a  course  of 
years,  in  support  of  his  government. 

8  Charles  then  rose  fron»  his  seat,  and  leaning  on  the  shoul- 
der of  the  prince  of  ()rar>ge,  i)ecanse  he  was  unable  to  stand 
without  support,  he  addressed  himself  to  the  audience  ;  and, 
from  a  paper  which  he  held  in  his  baud,  in  order  to  assist  his 
memory,  he  recounted,  with  digni^,  but  without  ostentation, 
all  the  great  things  which  he  had  undertaken  and  performed, 
since  the  commencement  of  his  administration. 

9  He  obsei^ved,  that  from  the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age, 
he  had  dedicated  all  his  thoughts  and  attention  to  public  ob- 
jects, reserving  no  portion  of  his  time  for  the  indulgence  of  hiij 
ease,  and  very  little  for  the  eiijoyment  of  private  pleasure  ; 
that  either  in  a  pacific  or  hostile  manner,  he  had  visited  Ger- 
many nine  times,  Spain  six  times,  France  four  times,  Italy 
seven  times,  the  Low  Countries  ten  times,  England  twice,  Af- 
rica as  often,  and  had  made  eleven  voyages  by  sea;  that  while 
hi*  health  permitted  him  to  discharge  his  duty,  and  the  vigour 
of  his  constitution  was  ecjual,  in  any  degree,  to  the  arduous  of- 
fice of  governing  dominions  so  extensive,  he  had  never  shun- 
ned labour,  nor  repined  under  fatigue ;  that  now,  when  his 
health  was  broken,  and  his  vigour  exhausted  by  the  rage  of 
an  incurable  distemper,  iiis  growing  infirmities  admonished 
him  to  retire  ;  nor  was  he  so  foad  of  reigning,  as  to  retain 
the  sceptre  in  an  impotent  hand,  which  was  no  lonijer  able  to 
protect  his  subjects,  or  to  render  them  happy;  that  instead 
of  a  sovereign  worn  out  with  diseases,  and  scarcely  half  alive^ 
he  gave  them  one  in  the  prime  of  life,  accustomed  already  to 
govern,  and  who  added  to  the  vigour  of  youth,  all  the  atten- 
tion and  sagacity  of  maturer  years  ;  that  if  during  the  course 
of  a  long  administration,  he  had  connnitted  any  material  er- 
ror in  government,  or  il,  under  the  pressure  of  so  many  and 
great  atfairs,  and  amidst  the  attention  which  he  had  been 
obliged  to  give  to  (l»«*m.  he  had  eillier  neglected  or  iniured  any. 


■•■■    v. 


II 


ESI  f  ■■ 


'-.  j 


I  IS. 


168 


THE  ENGUSII  READER. 


Part  I. 


•ill!- 


L    ,;■  ! 


of  his  subjects,  h6  now  implored  their  forgiveness ;  that,  for 
his  part,  he  should  ever  retain  a  grateful  sense  of  their  tidelity 
und  attachment,  and  would  carry  the  remembrance  of  it  along 
with  him  to  the  place  of  his  i*etreat,  as  his  sweetest  consola- 
tion, as  well  as  the  best  reward  for  all  his  services  ;  and  in 
his  last  prayers  to  Almighty  God,  wouid  pour  forth  his  ar- 
dent wishes  for  their  welfare. 

10  Then  tummg  towards  Philip,  who  fell  on  his  knees  ttnd 
kissed  his  father's  hand,  <*  If,"  says  he,  '*  I  had  left  you,  by  my 
death,  this  rich  inheritance,  to  which  I  have  made  such  large 
additions,  some  regard  would  have  been  justly  due  to  my 
memory  on  that  account;  but  now,  when  I  voluntarily  resist 
to  you  what  I  might  have  still  retained,  I  may  well  expect  tiie 
warmest  expressions  of  thanks  on  your  part.  Witli  tliese, 
however,  I  dispense ;  and  shall  consider  your  concern  for  the 
Welfare  of  your  subjects,  and  your  love  of  them,  as  the  best 
and  most  acceptable  testimony  of  your  gratitude  to  me.  It  is 
in  your  power,  by  a  wise  |nd  virtuous  administration,  to  jus- 
tify the  extraordinary  proof  which  I  give  this  day  of  my  pa- 
ternal affection,  and  to  denionstrAle  that  you  are  worthy  of 
the  confidence  which  I  repose  in  you.  Preserve  an  inviola- 
ble regard  for  religion ;  maintain  the  Catholic  faith  in  its  pu- 
rity ;  let  the  laws  of  your  country  be  sacred  in  your  eyes  ; 
encroach  not  on  the  rights  and  privileges  of  your  people ;  and 
if  the  time  shall  ever  come,  when  you  shall  wish  to  enjoy  tlie 
tranquillity  of  private  life,  may  you  have  a  son  endowed  with 
such  qualities,  that  you  can  resign  your  sceptre  to  him,  witii 
as  much  satisfaction  as  I  give  up  mine  to  you." 

11  As  soon  as  Charles  had  finished  this  long  address  to  Lis 
subjects,  and  to  then*  new  sovereign,  he  sunk  into  the  chair, 
exhausted  and  ready  to  faint  with  the  fatigue  of  so  extraordi- 
nary an  effort.  During  his  discourse,  tiie  whole  audience 
melted  into  tears;  some  from  admiration  of  his  magnanimity; 
others  softened  by  the  expressions  of  tenderness  towards  iils 
son,  and  of  love  to  his  people ;  and  all  were  affected  with 
the  deepest  sorrow,  at  losing  a  sovereign,  who  had  distin- 
guished the  Netherlands,  his  native  country,  with  particular 
marks  of  bis  regard  and  attachment. 

SECTION  XXVII. 
The  same  Subject  continued, 
A  FEW  weeks  after  the  resignation  of  the  Netherlands, 
Charles,  in  an  assembly  no  less  splendid,  and  with  a  ceremo- 
nial equally  pompous,  resigned  to  his  son  the  crowns  of  Spain, 
wiUi  all  the  territories  depending  on  them,  both  in  the  old  ami 
in  the  new  world.     Of  all  these  vast  possessions,  he  resened 


Ciur.  IX.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


169 


nothing  for  himself,  but  an  annual  pension  of  a  hundred 
thousand  crowns,  to  defray  the  charges  of  his  family,  and  to 
afibrd  him  a  small  sum  for  acts  of  beneficence  and  charity. 

2  Nothing  now  remained  to  detam  him  fk^om  that  retreat 
for  which  he  languished.  Every  thing  having  been  prepared 
some  time  for  his  voyage,  he  set  out  for  Zuitburg  in  Zealand, 
where  the  fleet  had  orders  to  rendezvous.  In  his  way  thittier, 
he  passed  through  Ghent :  and  after  stopping  there  a  few 
days,  tp  indulge  that  tender  and  pleasing  melancholy,  which 
arises  in  the  mind  of  every  man  in  the  decline  of  life,  on  vbit- 
ing  the  place  of  his  nativity,  and  viewing  the  scenes  and  ob- 
jects familiar  to  him  in  his  early  youth,  he  punued  his  jour« 
ney,  accompanied  by  his  son  Philip,  his  daughter  the  arch- 
duchess, his  sisters  tlie  dowager  queens  of  France  and  Hun- 
gary, Maximilian  his  son-in-law,  and  a  numerous  retinue  of 
the  Flemish  nobHity.  Before  he  went  on  board,  he  dismissed 
them,  with  marl^s  of  his  attention  and  regard ;  and  taking 
leave  of  Philip  with  all  the  tenderness  of  a  father  who  em- 
braced his  son  for  the  last  time,  he  set  sail  under  convoy  of 
a  large  fleet  of  Spanish,  Flemish,  aiid  English  ships. 

3  His  voyage  was  prosperous  and  agreeable ;  and  he  arrived 
at  Laredo  in  Biscay,  on  the  eleventh  day  after  he  left  Zealand. 
As  soon  as  he  landed,  he  fell  prostrate  on  the  ground ;  and 
considering  himself  low  as  dead  to  the  world,  he  kissed  the 
earth,  and  said,  **  Naked  came  I  out  of  my  mother's  womb, 
and  naked  I  now  return  to  thee,  thou  common  mother  of  man- 
kind." From  Laredo  he  proceeded  to  Talladolid.  There 
he  took  a  last  and  tender  leave  of  his  two  sisters ;  whom  he 
would  not  permit  to  accompany  him  to  his  solitude,  though 
they  entreated  it  with  tears :  not  only  that  they  might  have 
the  consolation  of  contributing,  by  their  attendance  and  care, 
to  mitigate  or  to  sooth  his  sufferings,  but  that  they  might  reap 
instruction  and  benefit,by  joining  with  him  in  those  pious  exer- 
cises, to  which  he  had  consecrated  the  remainder  of  his  da3rs. 

4  From  Yalladolid,  he  continued  his  journey  to  Plazencia 
in  Estremadura.  He  had  passed  through  that  city  a  gre?.t 
many  years  before ;  and  having  been  struck  at  that  time  with 
the  delightful  situation  of  the  monasteiy  of  St.  Justus,  belong- 
ing to  iie  order  of  St.  Jerome,  not  many  miles  distant  from 
that  place,  he  had  theu  observed  to  some  of  his  attendants,  that 
this  was  a  spot  to  which  Dioclesian  might  have  retired  with 
pleasure.  The  impression  had  remained  so  stroni?  on  his 
nind,  that  he  pitched  upon  it  as  the  place  of  his  retreat. 

5  It  was  seated  in  a  vale  of  no  gi'eat  extent,  watered  by  a 
flmall  brook,  and  surrounded  by  rising  grounds,  cohered  with 

P 


•I 


'P 


170 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


PartL 


V    \U'\ 


lofty  trees.  From  the  nature  of  the  soil,  as  well  as  the  tem« 
perature  of  the  climate,  it  was  esteemed  tlie  most  healthful 
and  delicious  situation  in  Spain. 

6  Some  months  before  his  resignation,  he  had  sent  an  archi- 
tect thither,  to  add  a  new  apartment  to  the  monastery,  for  his 
accommodation ;  but  he  gave  strict  orders  that  tlie  style  of  the 
bi'jClding  should  besuch  as  suited  his  present  station,  rather  than 
his  former  dignity.  It  consisted  only  of  six  rooms,  four  of  them 
in  the  form  of  friars*  cells,  with  naked  walls  ;  the  other  two, 
each  twenty  feet  square,  were  hung  with  brown  cloth,  and  fur- 
nished in  the  most  simple  manner.  They  were  all  on  a  level 
with  the  ground  ;  with  a  door  on  one  side  into  a  garden,  of 
which  Charles  himself  had  given  the  plan,  and  had  filled  it  with 
various  plants,  which  he  proposed  to  cultivate  with  his  own 
hands.  On  the  other  side,  they  communicated  with  the  chapel 
of  the  monastery,  in  which  he  was  to  perform  his  devotions. 

7  Into  this  humble  retreat,  hardly  sufficient  for  the  comforta- 
ble accommodation  of  a  private  gentleman,  did  Charles  enter, 
with  twelve  domestics  only.  He  buried  there,  in  solitude  and  si- 
lence, his  grandeur,  his  ambition,  together  with  all  those  vast 
projects,  which,  during  hall  acentury ,  liad  alarmed  and  agitated 
Europe;  iilHng  every  kingdom  in  it,  by  turns,  with  the  terror 
of  his  arms,  and  the  dread  of  being  subjected  to  his  power. 

8  In  this  retirement,  Charles  formed  such  a  plan  of  life  for 
himself,  as  would  have  suited  the  condition  of  a  private  per- 
son ot  a  moderate  fortune.  His  table  was  neat  but  plain ;  his 
domestics  few ;  his  intercourse  with  them  familiar ;  all  the 
cumbersome  and  ceremonious  forms  of  attendance  on  his 
person  were  entirely  abolished,  as  destructive  of  that  social 
ease  and  tranquillity,  which  he  courted,  in  order  to  sooth  the 
remainder  of  his  days.  As  the  mildness  of  the  climate,  toge- 
ther with  his  deliverance  from  the  burdens  and  cares  of  go- 
vernment, procured  him,  at  first,  a  considerable  remission 
from  the  acute  pains  with  which  he  had  been  long  tormented, 
he  enjoyed,  perhaps,  more  complete  satisfaction  in  this  hum- 
ble solitude,  than  all  his  grandeur  had  ever  yielded  him. 

9  The  ambitious  thoughts  and  projects  which  had  so  long 
engrossed  and  disquieted  him,  were  quite  effaced  from  his 
mind.  Far  from  taking  any  part  in  the  political  transactions 
of  the  princes  of  Europe,  he  restrained  his  curiosity  even 
from  any  iaquiry  concerning  th^m ;  and  he  seemed  to  view 
the  busy  scene  which  he  had  abandoned,  with  all  the  contempt 
and  indifference  arising  from  his  thorough  experience  of  its 
vanity,  as  well  as  from  the  pleasing  reflection  df  having  dis- 
entangled himself  from  its  cares,  dr.  Robertson, 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


his 


PART  II. 
^ILCES  m  POETRY. 

CHAPTER   I. 

8FXECT    SENTENCES   AND    PARAGBAFB8. 


SECTION  I. 

Slwrt  and  Easy  Sentences, 

Education. 

Vl^IS  education  forms  the  common  mind  ; 
■■-    Just  as  the  twig  is  bent,  the  tree  's  inclined. 

Candour. 
With  pleasure  let  us  own  our  errors  past  • 
And  make  each  day  a  critic  on  the  last. 

Reflection. 
A  soul  without  reflection,  like  a  pile 
Without  inhabitant,  to  ruin  runs. 

Secret  virtue. 
The  private  path,  the  secret  acts  of  men, 
If  noble,  far  the  noblest  of  their  lives. 

Necessary  knowledge  eamly  attained^ 
Our  needful  knowledge,  like  our  needful  food, 
Unhedg'd,  lies  open  in  lifers  common  field ; 
And  bids  all  welcome  to  the  vital  feast. 

Disappointment. 
Disappointment  lurks  in  many  a  prize, 
As  bees  in  flow'rs  ;  and  stings  us  with  success. 

Virtuous  elevation. 
The  mind  that  would  be  happy,  must  be  great; 
Great  in  its  wishes;  great  in  ifs  surveys. 
Extended  views  a  narrow  mind  extend.  ^': 

Natural  and  fanciful  life. 
Who  lives  to  nature,  rarely  can  be  poor ;  '  , 

Who  lives  to  fancy,  never  can  be  rich.  * 

NOTE — In  the  flrst  chapter  tho  rompiler  has  exhibited  a  considerable  Varlt^  Of 

poetical  construction.,  for  ii»e  yo»mg  rpt»»*t;r'9  pre^mratory  exercise. 


172 


THE  EN6USH  READER.        Part  If 


ill 


} 


Charity. 
In  faith  and  hope  the  world  will  disagree ; 
But  all  mankino's  concern  is  charity. 

The  prize  of  Virtue, 
What  nothing  earthly  gives,  or  can  destroy, 
The  soul's  csdm  sunshine,  and  the  heart-felt  joy, 
Is  virtue's  prize. 

Sense  emd  modesty  connected. 
Distrustful  sense  with  modest  caution  speaks; 
It  still  looks  home,  and  short  excursions  makes ; 
But  rattling  nonsense  in  full  volleys  breaks. 

Moral  discipline  salutary, 
Ileav'n  gives  us  friends  to  bless  the  present  scene  ; 
Resumes  them  to  prepare  us  for  the  next. 
All  evils  natural,  are  moral  goods ; 
All  discipline,  hidulgence,  on  the  whole. 

Present  blessings  undervalued. 
Like  birds,  whose  beauties  languish,  half  conceaPd, 
Till,  mounted  on  the  wing,  their  glossy  plumes 
Expanded,  shine  with  azure,  green,  and  gold, 
How  b^- ssings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight ! 

Hope, 
Hope,  of  all  passions,  most  benriends  us  here; 
Passions  of  prouder  name  befriend  us  less. 
Joy  has  her  tears,  and  transport  has  her  death ; 
Hope  like  a  cordial,  innocent,  though  strong, 
Man's  heart  at  once  inspirits  and  serenes. 

Happiness  modest  and  tranquil. 
Never  man  was  truly  blest, 
But  it  composed  and  gave  him  such  a  cast 
As  folly  might  mistake  for  want  of  joy: 
A  cast  unlike  the  triumph  of  the  proud ; 
A  modest  aspect,  and  a  smile  at  heart. 

True  greatness. 
Who  noble  ends  by  noble  means  obtains. 
Or  failing,  smiles  in  exile  or  in  chains, 
Like  good  Aurelius  let  him  reign,  or  bleed 
Like  Socrates,  that  man  is  great  indeed. 

The  tear  of  sympathy. 
No  radiant  pearl,  which  crested  fortune  wear?, 
No  gem,  that  twinkling  hangs  from  beauty's  ears, 
Nor  the  bright  stars,  which  night's  blue  arch  adorn, 


CBir.  L 


SELECT  SENTENCES. 


173 


^or  rising  suns  that  gild  the  vornal  morn, 
Sliine  witli  such  lustre,  as  the  tear  thut  breaks, 
For  others*  wo,  down  Virtue's  manly  cheeks. 

SECTION  II. 

VER8E8    IN   WHICH    THE  LINES  ARE  OF    DIPFERENT  LClfOTV 

Blisa  of  cfiUatial  Orifi^n, 
RESTLESS  mortals  toil  for  nought; 
Bliss  in  vain  from  earth  is  sought ; 
Bliss,  a  native  of  the  sky, 
Never  wanders.     Mortals,  try ; 
There  you  cannot  seek  in  vain ; 
For  to  seek  her,  is  to  gain. 

The  passions. 
The  passions  are  a  num'rous  crowd, 
Imperious,  positive,  and  loud. 
Curb  these  licentious  sons  of  strife  ; 
Hence  chiefly  rise  the  storms  of  life ; 
l(  they  grow  mutinous,  and  rave. 
They  ai'e  thy  masters,  thou  their  slave. 

Trust  in  Providence  recommendeifi 
'Tia  Providence  alone  secures, 
In  every  change,  both  mine  and  youn. 
Safety  consists  not  in  escape 
Trom  dangers  of  a  frightful  shape : 
An  earthquake  may  be  bid  to  spare 
The  man  that's  strangled  by  a  hair. 
Fate  steals  along  with  silent  tread, 
Found  oit'nest  in  what  least  we  dread 
Frowns  in  tiie  storm  with  angry  brow. 
But  in  the  sunshine  strikes  the  blow. 

Epitaph, 
How  lov'd,  how  valu'd  once,  avails  thee  uotj 
To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot : 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee; 
'Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  hi. 

Fame, 
All  fame  is  foreign,  but  of  true  desert ; 
Plays  round  the  heud,  but  comes  uot  to  Aie  heart. 
One  self-approving  hour,  whole  years  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starerg,  and  of  loud  hu/z.^j; 
And  moi'e  true  joy  Marccrllus  exilM  C^^^% 
Than  Cajsar  with  a  sei.at:'  ,c».'  his  hei'h. 


■J; 


J,  I, 


^« 


T» 


r  • 


ilfii 


If- 


fri 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  II 


III 


Virtue  the  Guardian  of  Youth. 
Down  the  smooth  stream  of  life  the  stripling  darts, 
Gay  as  the  morn  ;  bright  glows  the  vernal  sky, 
Hope  swells  his  sails,  and  Passion  steers  his  course 
Safe  glides  his  little  bark  along  the  shore, 
Where  Virtue  takes  her  stand  :  but  if  too  far 
He  launches  forth  beyond  discretion's  mark, 
Sudden  the  tempest  scowls,  the  surges  roar, 
Blot  his  fair  day,  and  plunge  him  in  the  deep. 

Sunrise, 
But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  king  of  day, 
Rejoicing  in  the  east.     The  lessening  cloud, 
The  kindling  azure,  and  the  mountain's  brow, 
lUum'd  with  fluid  gold,  his  near  approach 
Betoken  glad.     Lo,  now,  apparent  all 
Aslant  the  dew-bright  earth,  and  coloured  air. 
He  looks  in  boundless  majesty  abroad  ; 
And  fheds  the  shining  day,  that  burnished  plays 
On  rocks,  and  hills,  and  tow'rs,  and  wand'ring  streams. 
High  gleaming  from  afar. 

Self-government, 
May  I  govern  my  passions  with  absolute  sway  ; 
And  grow  wiser  and  better  as  life  wears  away. 

Shepherd. 
On  a  mountain,  stretched  beneath  a  hoary  willow, 
lOLj  a  shepherd  swain,  and  viewed  the  rolling  billow, 

SECTION  III. 

irliRSES    CONTAINING    EXCLAMATIONS,  INTERROGATIONS,  AND 

PARENTHESIS. 

Comtyetence 
A*  COMPETENCE  is  all  we  can  enjoy : 
Oh !  be  content,  where  Heaven  can  give  no  more ! 

Reflection  essential  to  Happiness, 
Much  joy  not  only  speaks  small  ha|ipiness, 
Uut  happiness  that  shortly  must  ex)>ire. 
Can  joy  unbottom'd  in  reflection,  stand  ? 
JXodf  in  a  tempest,  can  reflection  live  ? 

Friendship. 
I5an  gold  gain  friendship?  Impudence  of  hope! 
As  well  mere  man  an  angel  might  beget. 
Love,  and  love  only,  is  the  loan  for  love. 
JjortfTOS^l  {pHtde  repress;  nor  hope  to  fin<i 


Chaf.  I. 


SELECT  SENTENCES. 


173 


A  friend,  but  what  has  found  a  friend  in  thee. 
All  like  the  purchase  ;  few  the  price  will  pay  ! 
And  this  makes  friends  such  miracles  below. 

Patience. 
Beware  of  desp'rate  steps.     The  darkest  day, 
(Live  till  to-morrow)  will  have  passed  away. 

Luxury, 
•O  luxury! 


Bane  of  elated  life,  of  affluent  states, 
What  dreary  change,  what  ruin  is  not  thine  ! 
How  doth  thy  bowl  intoxicate  the  mind ! 
To  the  soft  entrance  of  thy  rosy  cave. 
How  dost  thou  lure  the  fortunate  and  great ! 
Dreadful  attraction ! 

Virtuous  Activity, 
Seize,  mortals  !  seize  the  transient  hour ; 
Improve  each  moment  as  it  flies : 
Life's  a  short  summer — man  a  flowV  ; 
He  dies — Alas! — how  soon  he  dies ! 

The  Source  of  Happiness. 
Reason's  whole  pleasure,  all  the  joys  of  senSe, 
Lie  in  three  words  ;  health,  peace,  and  competence* 
But  health  consists  with  temperance  alone  ; 
And  peace,  O,  virtue  !  peace  is  all  thy  own. 

Placid  Emotion. 
Who  can  forbear  to  smile  with  nature  ?  Can 
The  stormy  passions  in  the  bosom  roll. 
While  every  gale  is  peace,  and  every  grove 
Lb  melody  ) 

Solitude.* 
0  sacred  solitude  !  divine  retreat ! 
Choice  of  the  prudent !  envy  of  the  great ! 
By  thy  pure  stream,  or  in  thy  waving  shade, 
We  court  fair  wisdom,  that  celestial  maid : 
The  genuine  offspring  of  her  lov'd  embrace, 
(Strangers  on  earth)  are  innocence  and  peace. 
There  from  the  ways  of  men  laid  safe  ashore, 
We  smile  to  hear  the  distant  tempest  roar ; 
There,  bless'd  with  health,  with  business  unperplex'd, 
This  life  we  relish,  and  ensure  the  next. 

*  By  iolUude  here  is  meant,  n  temporary  Becluslon  from  the  worlcJ 


?J  ar 


176 


THE  ENGLISH  REAPER.        Part  II 


Presume  not  on  To-morrotv. 
In  human  hearts  what  bolder  thoughts  can  rise, 
Than  man's  presumption  on  to-morrow's  dawn? 
Where  is  to-morrow  ?  In  another  world. 
For  numbers  this  is  certain  ;  the  reverse 
Is  sure  to  none. 

Dum  vtvlmus  vivamus. — While  we  Ztre,  let  us  live. 

"  Live  while  you  live,"  the  epicure  would  say, 

'*  And  seize  the  pleasures  of  the  present  day." 

**  Live  while  you  live, "  the  sacred  preacher  cries  ; 

**  And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it  flies." 

Lord !  in  my  views,  let  both  united  be  ; 

J  live  in  pleasure,  when  I  live  to  thee  !        doddridge. 

SECTIQN  TV. 

VERSES    IN    VARIOUS    FORMS. 

The  security  of  Virtue', 

LET  coward  guilt,  with  pallid  fear, 

To  shelt'ring  caverns  fly, 
And  justly  dread  the  vengeful  fate, 

That  thunders  through  the  sky. 
Protected  by  that  hand,  whose  law 

The  threat'ring  storms  obey, 
Intrepid  virtue  smiles  secure. 

As  in  the  blaze  of  day. 

Resignation. 
And  Oh  !  by  error's  force  subdu'i, 

Since  oft  my  stubborn  will 
Prepost'rous  shuns  the  latent  good; 

And  grasps  the  specious  ill. 
Not  to  my  wish,  but  to  my  want, 

Do  thou  thy  gifts  apply ; 
tJnask'd,  what  good  tiiou  knowest  grant ; 

What  ill,  though  ask'd,  deny. 

Compassion, 
I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair ; 

I  have  found  where  the  wood-pigeona  breed  : 
But  let  me  that  plunder  forbear! 

She  will  say,  'tis  a  barbarous  deed. 
For  he  ne'er  can  be  true  she  averr'd. 

Who  can  rob  a  poor  bird  of  its  voung  : 
Ajid  I  lov'd  her  the  more,  when  I  neard 

Such  tendemer^  fall  from  her  too^te. 


■■":  i: 


■™!«P»^ 


Cbap.  1. 


SELECT  SENTENCES. 


IT? 


Epitaph, 
Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 

A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  ; 
Fair  science  frown*d  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 
Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere  ; 

Heav*n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  ; 
II9  gave  to  misVy  all  he  had — a  tear. 

He  gain'd  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  fWend. 
No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alilve  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 
Joy  and  Sorrov)  connected. 
Still,  where  rosy  pleasure  leads, 
See  a  kindred  grief  pursue; 
Behind  the  steps  that  mis'ry  treads, 
Approaching  comforts  view. 
The  hues  of  biiss  more  brightly  glow, 
ChastisM  by  sable  tints  of  woe ; 
And  blended  form,  with  artful  strife. 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

The  golden  Mean, 
He  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great. 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door^ 

Tmbitt'ring  all  his  state. 
The  tallest  pines  feel  most  the  powV 
Of  wintVy  blast ;  the  loftiest  tow'r 

Comes  heaviest  to  the  ground. 
The  bolts  that  spare  the  mountain's  side, 
His  cloud-capt  eminence  divide; 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 

Moderate  Views  and  Aims  recommended. 
With  passions  unruffled,  untainted  with  pride, 

By  reason  my  life  let  me  square ; 
The  wants  of  my  nature  are  cheaply  supplied ; 

And  the  rest  are  but  folly  and  care. 
How  vainly,  through  infinite  trouble  and  strife* 

The  many  their  labours  employ ! 
Since  all  that  is  truly  dtlightful  in  life, 

Jg  what  all,  if  they  please,  may  enjor. 


ITt 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  H. 


f' 


H 


Attachment  to  Life. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 

Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground  : 
'Twas  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages, 
That  love  of  life  increased  with  years, 

So  much,  that  in  our  later  stages, 

When  pain  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages^ 
The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 

Virtue^s  address  to  Pleasure,'^ 

Vast  happiness  enjoy  thy  gay  allies ! 

A  youth  of  follies,  an  old  age  of  cares ; 
Young  yet  enervate,  old  yet  never  wise. 

Vice  wastes  their  vigour,  and  their  mind  impairs. 
Vain,  idle,  delicate,  in  thoughtless  ease, 

Reserving  woes  for  age,  their  prime  they  spend ; 
All  wretched,  hopeless,  in  the  evil  days. 

With  sorrow  to  the  verge  of  life  they  tend. 
Grieved  with  the  preeent,  of  the  past  a?»ham*d, 
They  live  and  are  despis'd  ;  they  die,  nor  more  arc  nam*d, 

SECTION  V. 

VERSES  IN  WHICH   SOUND   CORRESPONDS   TO   SIGNIFICATION!. 

Smooth  and  rough  Verse. 
SOFT  is  the  strain  when  zephyr  gently  blowSo 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  hows. 
But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore. 
The  hoarse  rough  verse,  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

Slow  JMotion  imitated. 
When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 
The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow. 

Swift  and  easy  Motion. 
W^ot  so  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 
f>lies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main. 

Felling  Trees  in  a  Wood. 
ILoud-sounds  the  axe,  redoubling  strokes  on  strokes ; 
On  all  sides  round  the  forest  hurls  her  oaks 
Headlong.     Deep  echoing  groan  the  thickets  brown ; 
Then  rustling,  crackling,  cntshing,  thunder  down. 

Sound  of  a  Bow-string,  - 
■  '     ■  The  string  let  fly 

Twang'd  short  and  sharp,  like  the  shrUl  swallow's  cry. 

♦  Sensual  Plensurc 


Cbaf.  f. 


SKLECT  SENTENCES. 


yr9 


The  Pheasant, 

See !  from  the  brake  the  whirrinsr  pheasant  eprings. 
And  mounts  exulting  on  triumphant  wings. 

Scylla  and  Charybdis* 
Dire  Scylla  there  a  scene  of  horror  forms, 
And  here  Charybdis  fills  the  deep  with  storms. 
When  the  tide  rushes  from  her  rumblinjir  caves, 
The  rough  rock  roars ;  tumultuous  boil  the  waves. 

Boisterous  and  8!;enth  Sounds, 
Two  craggy  rocks  projecting  to  the  main. 
The  roarings  winds  tempestuous  rage  restrain : 
Within,  the  waves  in  softer  murmurs  glide; 
And  ^hips  secure  without  their  halsers  ride. 

Laborious  and  impetuous  J^Iotion, 
With  many  a  weary  step,  and  many  a  groan, 
Up  the  high  hill  he  heaves  a  huge  round  stone: 
The  huge  round  stone  resulting  with  a  bound. 
Thunders  impetuous  down,  and  smokes  along  the  ground; 

Reo;jdnr  and  sJoni  JSTovemeiit, 
First  march  the  heavy  mules  securely  slow; 
O'er  hills,  o'er  dales,  o'er  crags,  o'er  rocks  they  go, 

JMotion  slow  and  difftcult, 
A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  th^  song, 
That  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 

A  Rock  torn  from  the  Brou^  of  a  JVTountain, 
Still  gath'ring  force,  it  smokes,  and  uro'd  ?imain. 
Whirls,  leaps,  and  thunders  down,  impetuous  to  the  plain. 

Extent  and  vlohn  e  of  the  JVai^es, 
The  waves  behind  impel  the  waves  before, 
Wide  rolling,  foaming  high,  and  tumbling  to  the  shore 

Pensive  JVunibers, 
In  those  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells, 
Whc'i  heav'nly-pensive  contemplation  dwellj?, 
And  ever-musing  melancholy  reigns. 

DaHle. 

Arms  on  armour  clashing  brayed 

Horrible  discord  ;  and  the  madding  wheels 
Of  brazen  fuiy  ragV. 

_  * 

Sound  imitating  Rehictance, 
For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  piev. 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd  ; 


i 


180 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.         Part  II. 


M 


UP- 


Led  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  7 

SECTION  VL 

PARAGRAPHS  OF  GREATER  LENGTH. 

Connubial  Jiffeclion. 

THE  love  that  cheers  life's  latest  stage, 
Proof  against  sickness  and  old  age, 
Preserved  by  virtue  from  declension, 
Becomes  not  weary  of  attention : 
But  liveS)  when  that  exterior  grace, 
Which  first  inspired  the  flame,  decays. 
'Tis  ge^itle,  delicate^  and  kind. 
To  f^,ults  compassionate,  or  blind ; 
And  will  with  sympathy  endure 
Those  evils  it  would  gladly  cure. 
But  angry,  coarse,  and  harsh  expression, 
Shows  love  to  be  a  mere  profession ; 
Proves  that  the  heart  is  none  of  his, 
Or  soon  expels  him  if  it  is. 

Swarms  of  Flying  insects. 

Thick  in  yon  stream  of  light,  a  thousand  ways, 
Upward  and  downward,  thwarting  and  convolvM, 
The  quivering  nations  sport ;  till,  tempest- wing'd, 
Fierce  winter  sweeps  them  from  the  face  of  day. 
Ev^n  so,  luxurious  men,  unheeding,  pass 
An  idle  suii.^.er  life,  in  fortune's  shine, 
h  season's  glitter !     Thus  they  flutter  on, 
From  toy  to  toy,  from  vanity  to  vice ; 
Till,  blown  away  by  death,  oblivion  comes 
Behind,  and  strikes  them  from  the  book  of  life. 

Beneficence  ifs  oivn  Reicard. 
My  fortune  (for  I'll  mention  all, 
And  more  than  you  dare  tell)  is  small ; 
Yet  ev'ry  friend  partakes  my  store, 
Aind  want  goes  smiling  from  m/  door. 
Will  forty  shillings  warm  the  breast 
Of  worth  or  induul  y  distress'd  l 
This  sukii  I  cheerfully  inipart ; 
*Tis  fourscore  pleasures  to  my  heart : 
And  you  may  make,  by  means  like  these^ 
Five  talents  ten,  whenever  you  please. 
*Ti8  true,  my  little  purse  grows  light ; 
But  then  I  sleep  so  sweet  «t  4ghl  I 


CilAP.  I. 


SELECT  SEiN'l'ENCES. 


181 


This  grand  specific  will  prevail, 
When  all  the  doctor's  opiates  fail. 

Virtue  the  best  TreasHre, 

Virtue,  the  strength  and  beauty  of  the  soul, 
I;!  the  best  gift  of  Heaven:  a  happiness 
Thnt,  even  above  the  smiles  and  frowns  of  fate, 
Exalts  great  nature's  favourites :  a  wealth 
That  ne'er  encumbers ;  nor  to  baser  hands 
Can  be  transferr'd.     It  is  the  only  good 
Blan  justly  boasts  of,  or  can  call  his  own. 
Riches  are  oft  by  guilt  and  baseness  earn'd. 
But  for  one  end,  one  much-neglectf  d  use. 
Are  riches  worth  our  care;  (for  natui'e's  wants 
Are  few,  and  without  opulence  supplied  ;) 
This  noble  end  is  to  produce  the  soul ; 
To  show  the  virtues  in  their  fairest  light ; 
And  make  humanity  the  minister 
Of  bounteous  Providence. 

Contemplation, 
As  yet  'tis  midnight  deep.     The  weary  clouds, 
Slow  meeting,  mingle  into  solid  gloom. 
Now,  while  the  drowsy  world  lies  lost  in  sleep, 
Iiet  me  associate  with  the  serious  night. 
And  contemplation,  her  sedate  compeer; 
Let  me  shake  ofl*  th'  intnisive  cares  of  day, 
And  lay  the  meddling  senses  all  aside. 

Where  now,  ye  lying  vanities  of  life ! 
Ye  ever  tempting,  ever  cheating  train! 
W^here  are  you  now?  and  what  is  your  amount 
Vexation,  disappointment,  and  remorse. 
Sad,  slck'ning  thought !  And  yet,  deluded  man? 
A  scene  of  crude  disjointed  visions  past. 
And  broken  slumbers,  rises  still  resolv'd, 
V/ith  new  6ush'd  hopes,  to  run  the  giddy  round. 

Pleamre  of  Piety* 
K.  Deity  believ'd,  is  joy  begun  ; 
V  Deity  ador'd,  is  joy  advanc'd  ; 
\  Deity  belov'd,  is  joy  matur'd. 
t^'ach  branch  of  piety  delight  inspires  : 
Faith  builds  a  bridge  from  this  world  to  the  next, 
O'er  death's  dark  gulf,  and  all  its  horror  hides  ; 
Praise,  the  sweet  exhalation  of  our  joy, 
That  joy  exalts,  and  makes  it  sv/eeter  still ; 

Q 


;♦ 


Ifill 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  V 


ifnij^r  ardent  opens  heav'n,  lets  down  a  stream 
Of  glory,  on  the  consecrated  hour 
Of  man  hi  audience  witli  the  Deity. 


CHAPTER  H. 
H'ARIULTIVE    PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

The  Bears  and  the  Bees, 
AS  two  young  bears,  in  wanton  mood, 
Forth  issuing  from  a  neighbouring  wood, 
Came  where  the  industrious  bees  had  stor'd. 
In  artful  cells,  their  luscious  hoard  ; 
O'erjoy'd  they  seized,  with  eager  haste, 
Luxurious  on  the  rich  repast. 
Alarm'd  at  this,  the  little  crew 
About  their  ears  vindictive  flew. 
The  beasts,  unable  to  sustain 
The  unequal  combat,  quit  the  plain  : 
Half-blind  with  rage,  and  mad  with  pain, 
Their  native  shelter  they  regain  ; 
There  sit,  and  now  disrreeter  grown, 
Too  late  their  rashness  they  bemoan ; 
And  this  by  dear  experience  gain. 
That  pleasure  's  ever  boughi  with  pain. 
So  when  the  gilded  baits  of  vice 
Are  placcff  before  our  longing  eyes, 
With  greedy  haste  we  snatch  our  fill. 
And  swallow  down  the  latent  ill : 
But  when  experience  opes  our  eyes, 
Away  the  fancied  pleasure  flies. 
It  flies,  but  oh  !  too  late  we  find, 
It  leaves  a  real  sting  behind. — merrick. 

SECTION  n. 

The  J^if!;htm^ale  and  the  Glow-wonn, 
A  NIGHTINGALE,  that  all  day  long 
Had  cheer'd  the  village  with  his  song. 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet  when  eventide  was  ended, 
Began  to  feel,  n«  well  he  might, 
Thb  keen  demands  of  appetite  j 


Chap.  II. 


NARRATIVE  PIECES. 


183 


When,  looking  eagerly  around, 
He  spied  far  off,  upon  the  ground, 
A  something  shining  in  the  dark. 
And  knew  the  glow-worm  by  his  spark  ; 
So,  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top, 
He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 

The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent. 
Harangued  him  thus,  right  eloquent — 
"  Did  you  admire  my  lamp,"  quoth  he, 
"  As  much  as  I  your  minstrelsy. 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong, 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song  ; 
For  'twas  the  self-same  Pow*r  divine. 
Taught  you  to  sing,  and  me  to  shine  ; 
Ths^  you  with  music,  I  with  light. 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night." 

The  songster  heard  his  short  oration, 
And,  warbling  out  his  approbation 
Released  him,  as  my  story  tells. 
And  found  a  supper  some  where  else 
Hence,  jarring  sectaries  may  learn, 
Their  real  intVest  to  discern ; 
That  brother  should  not  war  with  brother, 
And  worry  and  devour  each  other: 
But  sing  and  shine  by  sweet  consent, 
Till  life's  poor  transient  night,  is  spent ; 
Respecting,  in  each  other's  case. 
The  gifts  of  nature  and  of  grace. 

Those  Christians  best  deserve  the  nf»rne, 
Who  studiously  make  peace  their  aim ; 
Peace,  both  the  duty  and  the  prize 
Of  him  that  creeps,  and  him  that  flies. — cowvER. 

SECTION  m. 

Tlie  trials  of  Virtue, 

PLAC'D  on  the  verge  of  youth,  my  mind 

Life's  op'ning  scene  survey'd : 
I  view'd  its  ills  of  various  kind, 

Afflicted  and  afraid. 

But  chief  my  fear  the  dangers  mov'd, 

That  virtue's  path  enclose : 
My  heart  the  wise  pursuit  approv'd, 

But  O,  what  toils  oppose  I 


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THE  ENi>L!SH  READER.        Part  IJ 


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3  For  see,  ah  see !  while  yet  her  ways 
With  doubtful  step  I  tread, 

A  hostile  world  its  terrors  raise, 
Its  snares  delusive  spread. 

4  O  how  shall  I,  with  heart  prepared, 
Those  terroi*3  learn  to  meet  ? 

How,  from  the  thousand  snares  to  guard 
My  unexperieric'd  feet  ? 

5  As  thus  I  mus'd,  oppressive  sleep 
Soft  o'er  my  temples  drew 

Oblivion's  veil. — The  wat'ry  deep, 
(An  object  strange  and  new,) 

6  Before  me  rose  :  on  the  wide  shore 
Obsen''ant  as  1  stood. 

The  gathering  storms  around  me  roar, 
And  heave  the  boiling  flood. 

7  Near  and  more  near  the  billows  rise  ; 

Ev'n  now  my  steps  they  lave  ; 
And  death  to  my  affrighted  eyes, 
Approach'd  in  every  wave. 

8  What  hope,  or  whither  to  retreat ! 

Each  nerve  at  once  unstrung  ; 
Chill  fear  had  fetter'd  fast  my  feet. 
And  chain'd  my  speechless  tongue. 

0  I  felt  my  heart  within  me  die  ; 
When  sudden  to  mine  ear 
A  voice,  descending  from  on  high, 
Reprov'd  my  erring  fear. 

10  "  What  though  the  swelling  surge  thou  see 

Impatient  to  devour ; 
Rest,  mortal ;    rest  on  God's  decree. 
And  thankful  own  his  pow'r, 

11  Know,  when  he  bade  the  deep  appear 

<  Thus  far,'  the  Almighty  said, 
*  Thus  f-xTy  no  further  rage  ;  and  here 
*  Le*        proud  waves  be  stay'd.'  " 

12  I  heard  ;  and  lo  !  pt  once  controlPd, 

The  waves,  in  wild  retreat, 
Back  on  themselves  reluctant  roU'd, 
And  murm'ring  left  my  feet, 

13  Deeps  to  assembling  deeps  in  vain 

Once  more  the  signal  gave  : 


14 


15 


16 


17 


18 


19 


2  . 


*■?-*,. 


H'^^' 


T  n 


Chap.  II. 


NARRATIVE  PIECES. 


166 


The  shores  the  mshing  weight  sustain, 
And  check  th'  usurping  wave. 

14  Convinced,  in  nature^s  volume  wise, 

The  imugM  truth  I  read; 
And  sudden  from  my  waking  ejes 
Th'  instructive  vision  fled. 

15  Then  '        thus  heavy,  O  my  soul? 

Say,     hy  distrustful  still. 
Thy  thoughts  with  vain  impatience  roU 
0*er  scenes  of  future  ill? 

16  Let  faith  suppress  each  rising  fear, 

Each  anxious  doubt  exclude : 
Thy  Maker's  will  hath  plac'd  thee  here, 
A  Maker  wise  and  good ! 

17  He  to  thy  ev'ry  trial  knows 

Its  just  restraint  to  give  : 
Attentive  to  behold  thy  woes, 
And  faithful  to  relieve. 

1 8  Then  why  thus  heavy,  O  my  soul ! 

Say,  why  distrustful  still. 
Thy  thoughts  ivith  vain  impatience  roll, 
O'er  scenes  of  future  ill  1 

19  Though  griefs  unnumberM  throng  thee  round, 

Still  in  thy  God  confide, 
Whose  finger  marks  the  seas  their  bound, 
And  curbs  the  headlong  tide. — Merrick. 

SECTION  IV. 

The  Youth  and  the  Philosopher, 

A  GRECIAN  youth  of  talents  rare, 
Whom  Plato's  philosophic  care 
Had  formM  for  virtue's  nobler  view, 
By  precept  and  example  too, 
Would  often  boast  his  matchless  skill, 
To  curb  the  steed,  and  guide  the  wheel ; 
And  as  he  pass'd  the  gazing  throng. 
With  graceful  ease,  and  smack'd  the  thong, 
The  idiot  wonder  they  express'd. 
Was  praise  and  transport  to  his  breast. 

At  length,  quite  vain,  he  needs  would  show 
His  ipaater  what  his  art  could  do ; 


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186 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  n. 


Ca 


6 


And  bade  his  slaves  the  chariot  lead 
To  Academus'  sacred  shade.* 
The  trembling  gi'ove  confessed  its  fright, 
The  wood-nymph  started  at  the  sight ; 
The  muses  drop  their  learned  lyre, 
And  to  their  inmost  shades  retire. 

Howe'er,  the  youth,  with  forward  air, 
Bows  to  the  sage,  and  mounts  the  car. 
The  lash  resounds,  the  coursers  spring, 
The  chariot  marks  the  rolling  ring ; 
And  gath'ring  crowds,  with  eager  eyes, 
And  shouts,  pursue  him  as  he  flics. 

Triumphant  to  the  goal  return'd, 
With  nobler  thirst  his  bosom  burn'd ; 
And  now  along  th'  indented  plain, 
The  self-same  track  he  marks  again; 
Pursues  with  care  the  nice  design, 
Nor  ever  deviates  from  the  line. 
Amazement  seiz'd  the  circling  crowd ; 
The  youths  with  emulation  glowed ; 
Ev'n  bearded  sages  hail'd  the  boy  ; 
And  all  but  Plato  gaz'd  with  joy. 

For  he,  deep-judging  sage,  beheld 
With  pain  the  triumphs  of  the  field: 
And  when  the  charioteer  drew  nigh,      ^ 
And,  flush'd  with  hope,  had  caught  his  eye, 
"  Alas!  unhappy  youth,"  he  cry'd, 
"  Expect  no  praise  from  me,"  (and  sigh*d.) 

"  W^ith  indignation  I  survey 
Such  skill  and  judgment  thrown  away : 
The  time  profusely  squandered  tliere,         ^ 
On  vulgar  arts  beneath  thy  care, 
If  well  employ'd,  at  less  expense, 
Had  taught  thee  honour,  virtue,  sense ; 
And  rais'd  thee  from  a  coachman's  fate. 
To  govern  men,  and  guide  the  state." 


WHITEHEAD 


SECTION  V. 


Discourse  between  Adam  and  Eve,  retiring  to  rest, 

NOW  came  still  ev'ning  on,  and  twilight  gray    f /' 
Had  in  her  sober  liv'ry  all  things  clad.  ,? 

Silence  accompanied  ;  for  beast  and  bird. 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests. 


Chaf.  U. 


NARRATIVE  PIECES. 


}&7 


Were  sunk ;    all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale. 
She  all  night  long  her  amVous  descant  sung ; 
Silence  was  pleas'd.     Now  glowM  the  firmament 
With  living  sapphires :  Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length. 
Apparent  queen,  unveil 'd  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw. 

When  Adam  thus  to  Eve  :  "Pair  consort,  th'  hour 

Of  night,  and  all  things  now  retired  to  rest, 

Mind  us  of  like  repose  ;  since  God  hath  set 

Labour  and  rest,  as  day  and  night,  to  men 

Successive,  and  the  timely  dew  of  sleep. 

Now  falling  with  soft  slum*brous  weight,  inclines 

Our  eye-lids.     Other  creatures  all  day  long 

Rove  idle  unemployed,  and  less  need  rest : 

Man  hath  his  daily  work  of  body  or  of  mind 

Appointed,  which  declares  his  dignity. 

And  the  regard  of  Heav'n  on  all  his  ways  ; 

While  other  animals  unactive  range, 

And  of  their  doings  God  takes  no  account. 

To-morrow,  ere  fresh  morning  streak  the  east 
With  first  approach  of  light,  we  must  be  risen, 
And  at  our  pleasant  labour  ;  to  reform 
Yon  flow'ry  arbours,  yonder  alleys  green. 
Our  walk  at  noon,  with  branches  overgrown. 
That  mock  our  scant  manuring,  and  require 
More  hands  than  ours  to  lop  their  wanton  growth; 
Those  blossoms  also,  and  those  dropping  gums, 
That  lie  bestrown,  unsightly  and  -unsinooth,         * 
Ask  riddance,  if  we  mean  to  tread  with  ease.      '  t 
Meanwhile,  as  nature  wills,  night  bids  us  rest." 

To  whom  thus  Eve,  with  perfect  beauty  adorn'd : 
"  My  author  and  disposer,  what  thou  bidst,    v^    'A 
Unargued,  I  obey ;  so  God  ordains. 
With  thee  conversing,  I  forget  all  time  ; 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet, 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds ;  pleasant  the  sui\,  ''' 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams  on  herb,  tree,  fruit,  and  (lowV, 
GlistVing  with  dew ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  show'rs  ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on  -  ^ 


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10a 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  II 


Cha 


Of  grateful  evening  mild  ;  then  silent  night, 
Wid^  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these,  the  gems  of  heav'n,  her  starry  train : 
6  But  neither  breath  of  morn,  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds  ;  nor  rising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land  ;  nor  herb,  fruit,  iiowV, 
Glist'ring  with  dew  ;  nor  fragrance  after  show*rs  ; 
Nor  (grateful  evening  mild ;  nor  silent  niir'at. 
With  this  her  solemn  bird  ;  nor  walk  by  moon, 
Or  glittering  star-light — without  thee  is  sweet. 
But  wherefore  all  night  long  shine  these  ?  for  whom 
This  glorious  sight,  when  sleep  hath  shut  all  eyes  ?" 

6  To  whom  our  general  ancestor  reply*d  : 

"  Daughter  of  God  and  man,  accomplished  Eve ! 
These  have  their  course  to  finish  round  the  earth, 
By  morrow  ev'ning ;  and  from  land  to  land, 
In  order,  though  to  nations  yet  unborn. 
Ministering  light  prepared,  they  set  and  rise  ; 
Lest  total  darkness  should  by  night  regain 
Her  old  possession,  and  extinguish  life 
In  nature  and  all  things ;  which  these  soft  fires 
Not  only  enlighten,  but  with  kindly  heat 
Of  various  influence,  foment  and  warm. 
Temper  or  nourish ;  or  in  part  shed  down 
Their  gtellar  virtue  on  all  kinds  that  grow 
On  earth,  made  hereby  apter  to  receive 
Perfection  from  the  sun's  more  potent  ray. 

7  These,  then,  though  unbeheld  in  deep  of  night, 
Shine  not  in  vain  ;  nor  think,  though  men  were  none, 
That  heav'n  would  want  spectators,  God  want  praise. 
If  illions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep. 
All  tfiese  with  ceaseless  praise  his  works  behold, 
Both  day  and  night.     How  often,  from  the  steep 

Qf  echoing  hill  or  thicket,  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air, 
^ole,  or  responsive  each  to  others'  note, 
Singing  their  great  Creator  ?  Ofl  in  bands, 
While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk 
Witih  beav'nly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds, 
In  full  harmonic  number  join'd,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  thoughts  to  heav'n, "    • 
B  Thus  talking,  hand  in  hand,  alone  they  pass'd 
On  to  their  blissful  bow'r.— r — .  -      . 


S 


Chap.  II. 


NARRATIVE  PIECES. 


m 


-There  arriv'd,  both  stood, 


Both  turned  ;  and  under  open  sky  ador'd 

The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heav'i 

Which  they  beheld,  the  moon's  resplendent  globe, 

And  starry  pole.     "  Thou  also  mad'st  the  night, 

Maker  Omnipotent,  and  thou  the  day, 

Which  we,  in  our  appointed  work  employed. 

Have  finished,  happy  in  our  mutual  help. 

And  mutual  love,  the  crown  of  all  our  bliss 

Ordained  by  thee ;  and  this  delicious  place. 

For  us  too  large,  where  thy  abundance  wants 

Partakers,  and  uncropt  falls  to  the  ground. 

But  thou  hast  promised  from  us  two  a  race,  w 

To  fill  the^arth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 

Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 

And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  deep."     milton 

SECTION  VI. 

Religion  and  Death. 

LO !  a  form,  divinely  bright. 

Descends,  and  burst?  upon  my  sights 

A  seraph  of  illuMrious  birth ! 

(Religion  was  her  name  on  earth;) 

Supremely  sweet  her  radiant  face, 

And  blooming  with  celestial  grace ! 

Three  shining  cherubs  formed  her  train, 

Wav'd  their  light  wings,  and  reached  the  plain : 

Faith,  with  sublime  and  piercing  eye. 

And  pinions  iButt'ring  for  the  sky ; 

Here  Hope,  that  smiling,  angel  stands. 

And  golden  anchors  grace  her  hands ; 

There  Charity  in  robes  of  white. 

Fairest  and  fav'rite  maid  of  light. 

The  seraph  spokt* — "  *Tis  Reason's  pait 
To  govern  and  to  guard  the  heart; 
To  lull  the  way  v\  ard  soul  to  rest. 
When  hopes  and  fears  distract  the  breast. 
Reason  may  calm  this  doubtful  strife. 
And  steer  thy  bark  through  various  life: 
But  when  the  storms  of  death  are  nigh, 
And  midnight  darkness  veils  the  sky, 
Shall  Reason  Ux^n  direct  thy  sail, 
Disperse  the  clouds,  or  sink  the  gale? 


':'t 


190  THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  H 

Stranger,  this  skill  alone  is  mine, 
Skill  that  transcends  his  scanty  line. 

3  "  Revere  thyself — thou'rt  near  allied 
To  angels  on  thy  better  side. 

How  various  e'er  their  ranks  or  kinds, 

Angels  are  but  unbodied  minds : 

When  the  partition-walls  decay, 

Men  emerge  angels  from  their  clay 

Yes,  when  the  frailer  body  dies, 

The  soul  asserts  her  kindred  skies. 

But  minds,  though  sprung  from  heav'nly  race. 

Must  first  be  tutor'd  for  the  place : 

The  joys  above  are  underatood. 

And  relish'd  only  by  the  good.  • 

Who  shall  assume  this  guardian  care ; 

Who  shall  secure  their  birth-right  there? 

Souls  are  my  charge — to  me  'tis  giv'n 

To  train  them  for  their  native  heav'n." 

4  "  Know  then — who  bow  the  early  knee, 
And  give  the  willing  heart  to  me  ; 
Who  wisely,  when  Temptation  waits, 
Elude  her  frauds,  and  spurn  her  baits ; 
Who  dare  to  own  my  injur'd  cause,  / 
Though  fools  deride  my  sacred  laws ; 

Or  scorn  to  deviate  to  the  wrong, 
Though  persecution  lifts  her  thong  ; 
Though  all  the  sons  of  hell  conspire 
To  raise  the  stake  and  light  the  fire ; 
Know  that  for  such  superior  souls. 
There  lies  a  bliss  beyond  the  poles : 
Where  spirits  shine  with  purer  ray, 
And  brighten  to  meridian  day ; 
Where  love,  where  boundless  friendship  rules ; 
(No  friends  that  change,  no  love  that  cools ;) 
Where  rising  floods  of  knowledge  roll. 
And  pour,  and  pour  upon  the  soul !" 
6  "  But  where's  the  passage  to  the  skies  ? — 
The  road  through  death's  black  valley  lie@. 
Nay,  do  not  shudder  at  my  tale : 
Tho'  dark  the  shades,  yet  safe  the  vale. 
This  path  the  best  of  men  have  trod ;  '  *'^ 

And  who'd  decline  the  road  to  God ! 
Oh !  'tis  a  glorious  boon  to  die  ! 
This  favour  can't  be  priz'd  too  high." 


Chap.  III. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


191 


6  While  thus  she  spoke,  my  looks  expressM 
The  raptures  kindling  in  my  breast ; 

My  soul  a  fixM  attention  gave ; 
When  the  stern  monarch  of  the  grave, 
With  haughty  strides  approached  : — amazM 
I  stood,  and  trembled  as  I  gazM. 
The  seraph  calmM  each  anxious  fear, 
And  kindly  wip*d  the  falling  tear ; 
Then  hastened,  with  expanded  wing, 
To  meet  the  pale,  terrific  king. 

7  But  now  what  milder  scenes  arise  !^ 
The  tyrant  drops  his  hostile  guise  ; 
He  seems  a  youth  divinely  fair  ; 

In  graceful  ringlets  waves  his  hair  ; 
His  wings  their  whitening  plumes  display, 
His  burnished  plumes,  reflect  the  day  ; 
Light  flows  his  shining  azure  vest, 
And  all  the  angel  stands  confessed. 

I  view'd  the  change  with  s.weet  surprise  ; 
And,  Oh  !  I  panted  for  the  skies  ; 
ThankM  heav'n,  that  e'er  I  drew  my  breath. 
And  triumphed  in  the  thoughts  of  death.— -cotton. 


CHAPTER  III. 
DIDACTIC  PIECES, 

SECTION  I. 

The  vanity  of  Wealth, 

NO  more  thus  brooding  o'er  yon  heap, 
With  av'rice  painful  vigils  keep  ; 
Still  unenjoy'd  the  present  store. 
Still  endless  sighs  are  breathM  for  more. 
Oh  !  quit  the  shadow,  catch  the  prize. 
Which  not  all  India's  treasure  buys ! 
To  purchase  heav'n  has  gold  the  pow'r  ? 
Can  gold  remove  the  mortal  hour  1 
In  life,  can  love  be  bought  with  gold  ] 
Are  friendships  pleasures  to  be  sold  ? 
No — ^all  that  *s  worth  a  wish — a  thought, 
Fair  virtue  gives  unbrib'd,  unbought. 
Cease  then  on  trash  thy  hopes  to  bind  : 
Let  nobler  views  engage  thy  mind. — pr.  joiinson. 


192  THE  ENGLISH  READER.  Part  H. 

SECTION  n. 

Nothing  formed  in  vain. 

LET  no  presuming  impious  railer  tax 
Creative  wisdom,  as  if  aufjht  was  formM 
In  vain,  or  not  for  admirable  ends. 
Shall  little  haughty  ignorance  pronounce 
His  works  unwise,  of  which  the  smallest  part 
Exceeds  the  narrow  vision  of  her  mind? 
As  if,  upon  a  full-proportion'd  dome. 
On  swelling  columns  heaved,  the  pride  of  art, 
A  critic-fly,  whose  feeble  ray  scarce  spreads 
An  inch  around,  with  blind  presumption  bold, 
Should  dare  to  tax  the  structure  of  the  whole. 

2  And  lives  the  man  whose  universal  eye 

Has  swept  at  once  th'  unbounded  scheme  of  things ; 

Mark'd  their  dependence  so,  and  firm  accord, 

As  with  unfault'ring  accent  to  conclude, 

That  this  availeth  nought  ?  Has  any  seen 

The  mighty  chain  of  beings,  le«s'ning  down 

From  infinite  perfection  to  the  brink 

Of  dreary  nothing,  desolate  abyss ! 

From  which  agtonishM  thought,  recoiling,  turns? 

Till  then  alone  let  zealous  praise  ascend, 

And  hymns  of  holy  wonder  to  that  power. 

Whose  wisdom  shines  as  lovely  in  our  minds, 

As  on  our  smiling  eyes  his  servant  sun. — tho3IPSon. 

SECTION  III. 

On  Pride, 

OF  all  the  causes,  n-hich  conspire  to  blind 

Man's  erring  judgment,  and  misguide  the  mind, 

Wliat  the  weadi  head  with  strongest  bias  rules, 

Isjpride ;  the  never  failing  vice  of  fools.  j^ 

Whatever  nature  has  in  worth  deny*d, 

She  gives  in  large  recruits  of  needful  pride ! 

For,  as  in  bodies,  thus  in  souls,  we  find 

What  wants  in  blood  and  spirits,  sweli'd  witii  wind. 

Pride,  wher;-  wit  fails,  steps  in  to  our  defence, 

And  fills  up  all  the  mighty  void  of  sense..-  ;; 

2  If  once  right  reason  drives  that  cloud  away. 
Truth  breaks  upon  us  with  resistless  day. 
Trust  not  yourself;  but,  your  defects  to  know, 
Make  use  of  ev'iy  friend— and  ev*ry  foe- 


K 


Chaf.  III. 


DIDACTIC  riECES. 


93 


3 


A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing ; 
Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring: 
There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain; 
And  drinking  largely  sobers  us  again. 

Fir'd  at  first  sight  vvith  what  the  muse  imparts, 
In  fearless  youth  we  tempt  the  heights  of  arts, 
While,  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind, 
Short  views  we  take,  nor  see  tlie  lengths  behind ; 
But  more  advanced,  behold,  with  strange  surprise, 
New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise ! 
So,  pleas'd  at  first  the  towVing  Alps  we  try. 
Mount  o'er  the  vales,  and  seem  to  tread  the  sky ; 
Th'  eternal  snows  appear  already  past, 
Ai'd  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  last : 
But,  those  attained,  we  tremble  to  sm-vey 
The  growing  labours  of  the  lengthen'd  way; 
Th'  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wand'riug  eyes ; 
Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise  —  »opk. 

SECTION  IV. 

Cruelty  to  Bnites  censured. 

I  WOULD  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends, 
(Though  gracM  with  polish'd  manners  and  fine  sense. 
Yet  wanting  sensibility,)  the  man 
^Vho  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail, 
That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path  ; 
But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned, 
Will  tread  aside,  ^d  let  the  reptile  live. 

The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight. 

And  chargM  perhaps  with  venom,  tlKvt  intrudes 

A  visitor  unwelcome  into  scenes 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  th'  alcove, 

The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die. 

A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 

Not  so,  when  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 

And  guiltless  of  offence  they  range  the  air, 

Or  taie  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field. 

There  they  are  privileged.     And  he  that  hunts 

Or  harms  them  there,  la  guilty  of  a  wrong; 

Disturbs  th'  economy  of  nature's  realm, 

W'ho  when  she  form'd,  design'd  them  an  abode 

The  sum  is  this:  if  man's  convenience,  health, 
Or  safety  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims  ^ 


a: 
'I 

^^  ■  ST 


'"n 


194  THE  ENGLISH  READEtt.        Fart  11 

Are  paramount,  and  must  extinsruish  tlieirn. 
Else  tbey  are  all — the  meanest  things  that  are — 
As  free  to  live  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 
As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 
Who,  in  his  sovereign  wisdom,  made  tliein  all. 

4  Ye,  therefore,  who  love  merry,  teach  your  sons 
To  love  it  too.     The  spring  time  of  our  years 
Is  soon  dishonour'd  and  deAl'd  in  mo»t, 

By  budding  ills  that  ask  a  prudent  hand 

To  check  them.     But  alas !  none  sooner  shoots 

If  unrestrained,  into  luxuriant  growth, 

Than  cruelty,  most  devMish  of  them  all. 

5  Mercy  to  him  that  shows  it,  is  the  rule 
And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act, 

By  which  heav'n  moves  in  pard'ning  guilty  man ; 
And  he  that  shows  none,  being  ripe  in  years, 
And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits. 
Shall  seek  it,  and  not  find  it,  in  his  turn. — cowpek. 

SECTION  V. 

tS.  Paraphrase  on  the  latter  part  of  the  6lh  chapter  of  St, 

•      Matthew, 

WHEN  my  breast  labours  with  oppressive  care. 
And  o'er  my  cheek  descends  the  falling  tear; 
While  all  my  warring  passions  are  at  strife, 
Oh!  let  me  listen  to  the  words  of  life ! 
Raptures  deep-felt  his  doctrine  did  impart. 
And  thus  he  rais'd  from  earth  the  drooping  heart. 

2  "  Think  not,  when  all  your  scanty  stores  afford. 
Is  spread  at  once  upon  the  sparing  board ; 
Think  not,  when  worn  the  homely  robe  appears, 
While  on  the  roof  the  howling  tempest  bears ; 
What  further  shall  this  feeble  life  sustain, 

And  what  shall  clothe  these  shivering  limbs  again. 

3  Say,  does  not  life  its  nourishment  exceed? 
And  the  fair  body  its  investing  weed  ? 
Behold!  and  look  away  your  low  despair — 
See  the  light  tenants  of  the  barren  air: 
To  tben^,  nor  stores  nor  granaries  belong;    • 
Nought,  but  the  woodland  and  the  pleasing  song ; 
Yet,  your  kind  heav'nly  Father  bends  bfs  eye 
On  \he  least  wing  that  flits  along  the  sky.  :, 
To  him  they  sing,  when  spring  renews  the  plain  ;  \" 
To  him  they  cry,  in  winter's  pinching  reign ;           ^ 


Nor  IB  their  music,  nor  their  plaint  in  vain 


J 


Chap.  III. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


196 


He  heai's  the  gay,  and  the  distressful  call ; 
And  with  unsparing  bounty  fills  them  all." 

5  "  Observe  the  rising  lily's  snowy  grace ; 
Observe  the  various  vegetable  race : 

They  neither  toil,  nor  spin,  but  careless  grow ; 
Yet  see  how  warm  .Ley  blush  !  how  bright  they  glow ! 
What  regal  vestments  can  with  them  compare ! 
What  king  so  shining!  or  what  queen  so  fair!" 

6  "If  ceaseless,  thus,  the  fowls  of  heav'n  he  feeds; 
If  o'er  the  fields  such  lucid  robes  he  spreads; 
Will  he  not  care  for  you,  ye  faithless,  say? 

Is  he  unwise?  or  are  ye  less  than  they?" — Thomson. 

SECTION  VI. 

The  death  of  a  good  Man  a  strong  incentive  to  Virtue, 

THE  chamber  where  the  good  man  meets  his  fate, 
Is  privileged  beyond  the  common  walk 
Of  virtuous  life,  quite  in  the  verge  of  heav*n. 
Fly,  ye  profane  !  if  not,  draw  near  with  awe. 
Receive  the  blessing,  and  adore* the  chance, 
That  threw  in  this  Rethesda  your  disease : 
*If  unrestorM  by  this,  despair  your  cure. 

2  For,  here,  resistless  demonstration  dwells ; 
A  death-bed's  a  detector  ot  the  heart. 
Here  tir'd  dissimulation  drops  her  mask, 
Thro'  life's  grimace,  that  mistress  of  the  scene ! 
Here  real,  and  apparent,  are  the  same. 

You  see  the  man ;  you  see  his  hold  on  heav'n. 
If  sound  his  virtue,  as  Philander's  sound. 

3  Heav'n  waits  not  the  last  moment ;  owns  her  friends 
On  this  side  death,  and  points  them  out  to  men ; 

A  lecture,  silent,  but  of  sov'reign  pow'r ; 
To  vice,  confusion :  and  to  virtue,  peace. 
Whatever  farce  the  boastful  hero  plays, 
Virtue  alone  has  majesty  in  death  ; 
And  greater  still,  the  more  the  tyrant  frowns. — toumg. 

SECTION  vn. 

Reflections  on  a  Future  State,  from  a  review  of  Winter* 

'TIS  done  !  dread  winter  spreads  his  latest  glooms, 

And  reigns  tremendous  o'er  the  conquer'd  year. 

How  dead  the  vegetable  kingdom  lies ! 

How  dumb  the  tuneful !  Horror  wide  extends  * 

His  desolate  domain.     Behold,  fond  man ! 

See  here  thy  pictur'd  life :  pass  some  few  years, 


% 


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THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  II. 


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Thy  flowering  spring,  thy  summer's  ardent  strength, 

Thy  sober  autumn  fading  into  age, 

And  pale  concluding  winter  comes  at  last. 

And  shuts  the  scene. 

2  Ah !  whither  now  are  fled 
Those  dreams  of  greatness  ?  those  unsolid  hopes 
Of  happiness^  those  longings  a(ler  fame? 
Those  restless  cares  ?  those  busy  bustling  days  ? 
Those  gay-spent,  festive  nights?  those  veering  thoughts, 
Lost  between  good  and  ill,  that  shar'd  thy  life  ? 

3  All  now  are  vanished  !     Virtue  sole  survives, 
Immortal,  never-failing  friend  "of  man. 

His  guide  to  happiness  on  high.     And  see! 
'Tis  come,  the  glorious  mom  !  the  second  birth 
Of  heav'n  and  earth  !  awak'ning  nature,  hears 
The  new-creating  word,  and  starts  to  hfe. 
In  ev'ry  heightened  form,  from  pain  and  death 
For  ever  free.     The  great  etenial  scheme, 
Involving  all,  and  in  a  perfect  whole 
Uniting  as  the  prospect  wider  spreads. 
To  reason's  eye  rfinn'd  clears  up  apace. 

4  Ye  vainly  wise !  Ye  blind  presumptuous !  now, 
Confounded  in  the  dust,  adore  that  Power 
And  Wisdom,  oft  arraign'd  :  see  now  the  cause 
Why  unassuming  worth  in  secret  liv'd. 

And  died  neglected  :  why  the  good  man's  share 

In  life  was  gall  and  bitterness  of  soul : 

Why  the  lone  widow  and  her  orphans  pin'd 

In  starving  solitude  ;  while  luxury, 

In  palaces  lay  straining  her  low  thought. 

To  form  unreal  wants :  why  heav'n-born  truth. 

And  moderation  fair,  wore  the  red  marks 

Of  superstition's  scourge  :  why  liceus'd  pain, 

That  cruel  spoiler,  that  embosom'd  foe, 

Imbitter'd  all  our  bliss. 

5  Ye  good  distress'd  ! 
Ye  noble  few !  who  here  unbending  stand 
Beneath  life's  pressure,  yet  bear  up  awhile, 
And  what  your  bounded  view,  which  only  saw 
A  little  part,  deem'd  evil,  is  no  more  '. 

The  storms  of  wint'ry  time  will  quickly  pass, 
And  one  unbounded  spring  encircle  all. — Thomson 


ciiAF.  in. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


197 


SECTION  VIII. 

Adam's  advice  to  fJre,  io  nroid  temptation.    ' 

"  O  WOMAN,  best  are  all  things  as  the  will 
Of  Go<l  ordainM  them;  his  creating  hand 
Nothing  imperfect  or  deficient  lell 
Of  all  that  he  created,  much  Ivsa  man. 
Or  aught  that  might  his  lappy  nlate  secure. 
Secure  from  outward  force.     Within  himself 
The  danger  lies,  yet  lies  within  his  powV: 
Against  his  will  he  can  rec<>ive  no  harm. 

2  But  God  left  free  the  will ;  for  w  liat  obeys 
Reason,  is  free,  and  reason  he  made  light; 
But  bid  her  well  beware,  and  still  erect, 
Lest,  by  some  fair  appearing  good  surprisM, 
She  dictate  false,  and  misinform  the  will 
To  do  what  God  expressly  hath  forbid. 
Not  then  mistrust,  but  tender  love,  enjoins 
That  I  should  mind  thee  oft :  and  mind  thou  me. 

3  Firm  we  subsist,  yet  possible  to  swerve, 
Since  reason  not  impossibly  may  meet 
Some  specious  object  by  the  foe  suborn'd, 
And  fall  into  deception  unaware, 
Not  keeping  strictest  watch,  as  she  was  warnM. 
Seek  not  temptation  then,  which  to  avoid 
Were  better,  and  most  likely  if  from  me 
Thou  sever  not ;  trial  will  come  unsought. 

4  ^'''  /uldst  thou  approve  thy  constancy  ?  approve 
\  «rst  thy  obedience  ;  th*  other  who  can  know, 
Not  seeing  thee  attempted,  who  attest? 
But  if  thou  think,  trial  unsought  may  find 
Us  both  securer  than  thus  warn'd  thou  seem'st,    '^ 
Go  ;  for  tliy  stay,  not  free,  a])3e!»t3  tliee  more  : 
Go  in  thy  native  innocence ;  rely 

On  what  thou  hast  of  vii*tue,  suinuion  all; 

For  God  towards  th^e  hath  done  his  pail ;  do  thine." 

MILTOIi. 


SECTION  TX. 

On  Procrastination. 

BE  wise  to-day;  'tis  madness  to  defer: 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead; 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  push'd  out  of  life. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time,  r^  '»*  sr«i 
Year  aller  yeai'  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled,    •'"' 

R2 


M- 


,,u 


Hi  "   .    'l 


I  i 


i 


198  THE  ENGLISH  READER.       Part.  U 

And,  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 

2  Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes,  this  bears 
The  palm,  "  That  all  men  are  about  to  live :" 
For  ever  on  the  brink  of  being  born. 

All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think. 
They  one  day  shall  not  drivel ;  and  their  pride 
On  diis  reversion,  takes  up  ready  praise  ; 
At  least  their  own ;  their  future  selves  applauds  ; 
How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead  ! 
Time  lodg'd  in  their  own  hands  is  folly's  vails  ; 
That  lodg'd  in  fate's,  to  wisdom  they  consign  ; 
The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose,  they  postpone. 
'Tis  not  in  folly,  not  to  scorn  a  fool ;  ^ 

And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 

3  All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man  ; 

And  that  thro'  ev'ry  stage.     When  young,  indeed, 
In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 
Unanxious  for  ourselves  ;  and  only  wish. 
As  duteous  sons,  our  father's  were  more  wise. 
At  thirty,  man  suspects  himself  a  fool  ; 
Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan ; 
At  fifty,  chides  his  infamous  delay ; 
Pushes  his  prudent  pui-pose  to  resolve  ; 
In  all  the  flfiagnanimity  of  thought. 
Resolves,  and  re-resolves,  then  dies  the  same. 

4  And  why  1  Because  he  thinks  himself  immortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal,  but  themselves ; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  fate 
Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden  dread  : 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air. 

Soon  close  ;    where,  past  the  shaft,  no  trace  is  found. 
As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains  ; 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel ; 
So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death. 
J,       Ev'n  with  the  tender  tear  which  Nature  sheds 

O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. — young. 

SECTION  X. 

7.^hat  Philosophy,  which  stops  at  Secondary  Causes,  repi^ovfid 

HAPPY  the  man  who  sees  a  God  employ'd 
In  all  the  good  and  ill  that  checker  life  !  .,-;  i 

Resolving  all  events,  with  their  effects 
And  manifold  results,  into  tlie  will      37 


Cf 


■Hi 


-«T 


-aft  \t  * 


Chap.  HI. 


DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


109 


And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme. 

Did  not  his  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 

The  least  of  our  concerns  ;  (since  from  the  least 

The  greatest  oft  originate  ;)  could  chance  ' 

Find  place  in  his  dominion,  or  dispose 

One  lawless  particle  to  thwart  his  plan  ; 

Then  God  might  be  surprised,  and  unforseeii 

Contingence  might  alarm  him  and  disturb  •   ' 

The  smooth  and  equal  course  of  his  aHairs. 

2  This  truth,  philosophy,  though  eagle-ey'd 

In  nature's  tendencies,  oft  overlooks  ;  ,  ^ 

And  having  found  his  inst/ument,  forgets 
Or  disregards,  or,  more  presum^jtuous  still, 
Denies  the  pow'r  that  wields  it.     God  proclaims ' 
His  hot  displeasure  against  foolish  men 
That  live  an  atheist  life ;  involves  the  heav'n 
In  tempests  ;  quits  his  grasp  upon  the  winds, 
And  gives  them  all  their  fury  ;  bids  a  plague     !    , 
Kindle  a  fiery  boil  upon  the  skin. 
And  putrefy  the  breath  of  blooming  health  ; 

*  .    •     . 

3  He  calls  for  famine,  and  the  meagre  fiend 
Blows  mildew  from  between  his  shrivel'd  lips, 
And  taints  the  golden  ear ;  he  springs  his  muies, 
And  desolates  a  nation  at  a  blast : 

Forth  steps  the  spruce  philosopher,  and  tells 
Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs  <  ■  • .  - ,  ■' 

And  principles  ;  of  causes,  how  they  work      j.,     » 
By  necessary  laws  their  sure  effects,  J\   / 

Of  action  and  re-action.  '    / 

4  He  has  found        ^^''   /, 
The  source  of  the  disease  that  nature  feels ;  "  "  ; 
And  bids  the  world  take  heart  and  banish  fear.' 
Thou  fool !  will  thy  discovery  of  the  cause  ,    , 
Suspend  th*  effect,  or  heal  it?  Has  not  God 

Still  wrought  by  means  since  first  he  made  the  world  ? 
And  did  he  not  of  old  employ  his  means  ^ 
To  drown  it  1  What  is  his  creation  less    ' '^' 
Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means,  ' 

Form'd  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  will  ? 
Go,  dress  thine  eyes  with  eye-salve ;  ask  of  him, 
Or  ask  of  whomsoever  he  nas  taught ;  ' 

And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all.  co\  ;. 


»?. 


^i 


f»*-i" 


ifr 


<>.. 


"'ji»  X 


''t  i, 


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THE  ENGLISH  HEADER.         Part  H 


I 


SECTION  XL 

Indignant  Sentiments  on  JVationeU  Prejudices,  Slavery^  i^c. 
OH,  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war. 
Might  never  reach  me  more  !  My  ear  is  pain'd, 
My  soul  is  sick  with  evVy  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filPd. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart ; 
It  does  not  feel  for  man.     The  nat'ral  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severM,  as  the  flax 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 

2  He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 

Not  colour'd  like  his  own ;  and  baring  pow'r 
T'  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  woi  'by  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  jiarrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed, 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else. 
Like  kindred  drops,  been  mingled  into  one. 

3  Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  ; 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplor'd, 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart. 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 

4  Then  what  is  man !  And  what  man  seeing  this, 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man? 

I  would  not  huve  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep,  .,        ' 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth   H^; 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd.    ,.'*, 

5  No  ;  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's  ^  '       ■ 
Just  estimation  priz'd  above  all  price  ;    '  '^*^' 

I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave,    ,  . /^      '■'"/ 
And  wear  the  bond3,  that  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home — then  why  abroad  ? 
And  they  tliemselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loos'd.  ^^ 

6  Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  Ejigland  :  if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free , 
Tliey  touch  our  country,  aud  llu;lr  r^huckles  f.il]. 
That's  noble,  aud  bespeaks  a  natiou  proud 


Chap.  IV.        DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES.  201 

And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  ev'ry  vein 
Of  all  your  empire  ;  that  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. — cowper. 

CHAPTER  IV. 
DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

Tlie  JVlorninL!:  in  Summer, 
THE  meek-ey'd  morn  appeal's,  mother  of  dews. 
At  first  faint  gleaming  in  the  dappled  east ; 
Till  far  o'er  ether  spreads  the  wid'ning  glow ; 
And  from  before  the  lustre  of  her  face 
White  break  the  clouds  away.     TV^th  quickened  st«-. 
Brown  night  retires ;  young  day  pours  in  apace. 
And  opens  all  the  lawny  prospect  wide. 

2  The  dripping  rock,  the  mountain's  misty  top, 
Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn. 
Blue,  thro'  the  dusk  the  smoking  currents  shine; 
And  from  the  bladed  field  the  fearful  liare 
Limps  awkward :  while  along  the  forest-glade 
Th^  wild  deer  trip,  and  often  turning  gaze 

At  early  passenger.     Music  awakes 

The  native  voice  of  undissembled  joy  ; 

And  thick  around  the  woodland  hymns  arise. 

3  Rous'd  by  the  cock,  the  soou-clad  shepherd  leaves 
His  mossy  cottage,  where  with  peace  he  dwells  ; 
And  from  the  crowded  fold,  in  order,  drives 

His  flock  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  morn. 
Falsely  luxurious,  will  not  man  awake  ; 
And  springing  Trom  the  bed  of  sloth,  enjoy 
The  cool,  the  fragrant,  and  the  silent  hour^ 
To  meditation  due  and  sacred  song  ?  |  > 

4  For  is  there  aught  in  sleep  can  charm  the  wise  ? 
To  lie  in  dead  oblivion,  losing  half 

The  fleeting  moments  of  too  short  a  life ; 

Total  extinction  of  th' enlighten'd  soul! 

Or  else  to  f.iverish  vanity  alive, 

Wilder'd,  rmd  tossing  thro'  distemper'd  dreams? 

Who  would  in  such  a  gloomy  state  remain 

Longer  than  nature  craves ;  when  ev'ry  muse 

And  ev'ry  blooming  pleasure  waits  without. 

To  bless  the  wildly  devious  morni^ig  walk? — thom 


:«  .  1 


fl:  -. 


202 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  II. 


Ch 


SECTION  II. 

Rural  Sounds,  m  well  as  Rural  Sights,  delightful. 

NOR  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds 
Exilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  nature.     Mighty  winds 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood, 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music,  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind ; 
Unnumbered  branches  waving  in  the  blast, 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  flutf  ring  all  at  once. 

Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 

Of  distant  floods ;  or  on  the  softer  voice 

Of  neighboring  fountain;  or  of  rills  that  slip  : 

Through  the  cleft  rock,  and,  chiming  as  they  fall 

Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 

In  matted  grass,  that,  with  a  livelier  green, 

Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 

Nature  inanimate  employs  sweet  sounds  ; 

But  animated  nature  sweeter  still ; 

To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 

Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 

The  live-long  night.     Nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 

Nice  finger'd  art  must  emulate  in  vain ; 

But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime, 

In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming  loud  ; 

The  jay,  the  pye,  and  ev'n  the  boding  owl. 

That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 

Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves,  and  harsh, 

Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  for  ever  reigns, 

And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. — cowpsr. 


< 


SECTION  III. 

^  The  Rose, 

THE  rose  had  been  wash'd,  just  wash'd  in  a  show'r, 

Which  Mary  to  Anna  conveyed ; 
The  plentiful  moisture  encumber'd  the  flow'r, 

And  weigh'd  down  its  beautiful  head. 

2  The  cup  was  all  filPd,  and  the  leaves  were  all  wet, 

And  it  seemed  to  a  fanciful  view, 
To  weep  for  the  buds  it  had  left  with  regret, 
On  the  flourishing  bush  where  it  grew. 

3  I  hastily  seiz'd  it,  unlit  as  it  was 

For  a  nosegay,  so  dripping  and  drownM ; 


Li 


Chaf.  IV.        DESCRIPTIVE  PIECEJ. 


203 


And  swinging  it  rudely,  too  rudely,  alas  ! 

I  snappM  it — it  fell  to  the  ground. 
And  such,  I  exclaim'd,  is  the  pitiless  pai*t, 

■  Some  act  by  the  delicate  mind ; 
Regardless  of  wringing  and  brealdng  a  heart, 

Already  to  sorrow  resigned. 
This  elegant  rose,  had  I  shaken  it  less. 

Might  have  bloom'd  with  its  owner  awhile  ; 
And  the  tear  that  is  wip'd  with  a  little  address. 

May  be  followed,  perhaps,  by  a  smile.— <;owpeiu 


A^ 


SECTION  IV. 

Care  of  Birds  for  their  Young;. 
AS  thus  the  patient  dam  assiduous  sits, 
Not  to  be  tempted  from  her  tender  task. 
Or  by  sharp  hunger,  or  by  smooth  delight, 
Tho*  the  whole  loosen'd  spring  around  her  blows, 
Her  sympathizing  partner  takes  his  stand 
High  on  th'  opponent  bank,  and  ceaseless  sings 
The  tedious  time  away  ;  or  else  supplies 
Her  place  a  moment,  while  she  sudden  flits  ^ 
To  pick  the  scanty  meal. —  '  ;/^' 

I  Th'  appointed  time 

With  pious  toil  fulfilled,  the  calJow  young, 
WarmM  and  expamled  into  perfect  life, 
Their  brittle  bondage  break,  and  come  to  light ; 
A  helpless  family,  demanding  food 
With  constant  clamour.     O  what  passions  then. 
What  melting  sentiments  of  kindly  care, 
On  the  new  parents  seize ! 

Away  they  fly  < 

Affectionate,  and  undesiring  bear 
The  most  delicious  morsel  to  their  young ; 
Which  equally  distributed,  again 
The  search  begins.     Even  so  a  gentle  pair. 
By  fortune  sunk,  but  form'd  of  genVous  mould. 
And  charmed  with  cares  beyond  the  vulgar  breast, 
In  some  lone  cot  amid  the  distant  womls. 
Sustained  alone  by  providential  Heaven, 
Off,  as  they  weeping  eye  their  inl'ant  train, 
Check  their  own  appetites  and  sfive  them  all. — Thomson. 

SECTION  V.  \ 

Liberty  and  Slavery  contrasted.     Part  of  a  letter  tnritlcn 

from  Italy,  by  ,^ddison, 
H"OW  has  kind  Henv'n  adorn'd  th?s  happy  land, 
And  scattered  blessings  with  a  wasteful  hand  I 


li: 


i: 


IP 


S04 


THE  ExNCLLSll  IU':\I)L:H. 


Tart  II. 


But  what  avail  her  unexhausted  stores, 

Her  blooming  mountains,  and  her  sunny  short**, 

With  all  the  gifts  that  heav'n  and  earth  Jnipjiit, 

The  smiles  of  nature,  and  the  charms  of  art. 

While  proud  oppression  in  her  valleys  reigns, 

And  tyranny  usurps  her  happy  plains  ? 

The  poor  inhabitant  beholds  in  vain 

The  reddening  orrsnge,  and  tlie  swelling  grain  ; 

Joyless  he  sees  the  growing  oils  and  wines, 

And  in  the  myrtle's  fragrant  shade,  repines. 

Oh,  Liberty,  thou  pow'r  supremely  bright, 

Profuse  of  bliss,  and  pregnant  with  delight ! 

Perpetual  pleasure;}  ia  thy  presence  reign  ; 

And  smiling  plenty  leads  thy  wanton  train. 

Eas'd  of  her  load,  subjection  grows  more  light; 

And  poverty  looks  cheerful  in  thy  sight. 

Thou  mak'st  the  gloomy  face  of  nnUire  gay  ; 

Giv'st  beauty  to  the  sua,  and  pleasure  to  tiie  djy. 

On  foreign  mountains  may  the  sun  retlue 

The  grape's  soft  juice,  and  mellow  it  to  Vvhie  ; 

With  citron  groves  adoni  a  distant  soil. 

And  the  fat  olive  swell  with  (lodds  of  oil  : 

\Te  envy  not  the  warmer  clime  that  lied 

In  ten  degrees  of  niore  indulgent  skies; 

Xor  at  the  coarseness  of  our  heav'n  rej)iae, 

Tho'  o'er  our  heads  the  frozen  Plelaiis  bliiue : 

'Tis  Liberty  that  crowns  Britannia's  isle,  [smile. 

And  makes  her  barren  roclcs,  and  her  bleak  mountains 


>r  SECTION  YI.  ' 

('harily.     ./i  Paraphrase  on  the  I3th  Chapter  of  the  First 

Epistle  to  the  Corinthians, 

DID  sweeter  sounds  adorn  my  flowing  tongue,     rr-    - 
Than  ever  man  pronounc'd,  or  angel  sung  ;  ^  , 

Had  I  all  knowledge,  human  and  divine,  '  (" 

That  thought  can  reach,  or  science  can  define ; 
And  had  I  pow'r  to  give  that  knowledge  birth, 
In  all  the  speeches  of  the  babbling  earth ;    -, 
Did  Shadrach's  zeal  my  glowing  breast  inspiro, 
To  weary  tortures,  and  rejoice  in  fire  ;        ■  ^^  ^ 
Or  had  I  faith  like  that  which  Israel  snw,  .   ;* 
When  Moses  g'ave  them  miracles,  and  law  :*  '■  Vj 
Yet,  gracious  charity,  indulgent  guest, 
Wore  not  thy  power  exerted  in  my  biciis!; 


vP-t- 


-.V 


I : 


Chap.  IV.       DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 


205 


Those  speeches  would  send  up  unheeded  prayV ; 
That  scorn  of  life  would  be  but  wild  despair  : 
A  cymbal's  sound  were  better  than  my  voice  ; 
My  faith  were  form  ;  my  eloquence  were  noise. 
I  Charity,  decent,  modest,  easy,  kind. 
Softens  the  high,  and  rears  the  abject  mind, 
Knows  with  just  reins,  and  gentle  hand,  to  guide 
Betwixt  vile  shame,  and  arbitrary  pride. 
Not  soon  provok'd,  she  easily  forgives  ; 
And  much  she  suffers,  as  she  much  believes. 
Soft  peace  she  brings  wherever  she  arrives  ; 
She  builds  our  quiet  as  she  forms  our  lives  ; 
Lays  the  rough  paths  of  peevish  nature  even  ; 
And  opens  in  each  heart  a  little  heaven. 

Each  other  gift,  which  God  on  man  bestows, 

Its  proper  bounds,  and  due  restriction  knows  ; 

To  one  fixM  purpose  dedicates  its  pow'r, 

And  finishing  its  act  exists  no  more. 

Thus,  in  obedience  to  what  heav'n  decrees. 

Knowledge  shall  fail,  and  prophecy  shall  cease  ; 

But  lasting  charity's  more  ample  sway. 

Nor  bound  by  time,  nor  subject  to  decay, 

In  happy  triumph  shall  for  ever  live  ; 

And  endless  good  diffuse,. and  endless  praise  receive. 

As  through  the  artist's  intervening  glass,   - 

Our  eye  observes  the  distant  planets  pass ; 

A  little  we  discover  ;  but  allow. 

That  more  remains  unseen,  than  art  can  show  ; 

So  whilst  our  mind  its  knowledge  would  improve, 

(Its  feeble  eye  intent  on  things  above,) 

High  as  we  may,  we  lift  our  reason  up. 

By  faith  directed,  and  confirmed  by  hope  ; 

Yet  we  are  able  only  to  survey, 

Dawnings  of  beams,  and  promises  of  day  ; 

Heaven's  fuller  efHuence  mocks  our  dazzled  sight ; 

Too  great  its  swiftness,  and  too  strong  its  light.  . 

But  soon  the  mediate  clouds  shall  be  dispell'd  ;  . 
The  sun  shall  soon  be  face  to  face  beheld. 
In  all  his  robes,  with  all  his  glory  on, 
Seated  sublime  on  his  meridian  throne. 
Then  constant  Faith,  and  holy  Hope,  shall  die  ; 
One  lost  in  certainty,  and  one  in  joy  : 
Whilst  thou,  more  happy  power,  fair  Charity, 
Triumphtut  sister,  greatest  of  the  three, 

S 


;y 


^i 


1 


-    '5n 


n 


i 

I 


I 


i 


206  THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  IJ. 

Thy  office,  and  thy  nature  still  the  same, 
Lasting  thy  lamp,  and  unconsum'd  thy  flame, 
Shalt  still  suiTive — 

Shalt  stand  before  the  hosts  of  heav'n  confest. 
For  ever  blessing,  and  for  ever  blest.- 


Ca 


-PRIOR. 


SECTION  VII. 


Picture  oj  a  Good  JMau, 

SOME  angel  guide  my  pencil,  while  I  draw. 
What  nothing  else  than  angel  can  exceed, 
A  man  on  earth  devoted  to  the  skies ; 
Like  ships  at  sea,  while  in,  above  the  world. 
With  aspect  mild,  and  elevated  eye. 
Behold  him  seated  on  a  mount  serene. 
Above  the  fogs  of  sense,  and  passion's  storm  ; 
All  the  black  cares,  and  tumults  of  this  life. 
Like  harmless  thunders,  breaking  at  his  feet, 
Excite  his  pity,  not  impair  his  peace. 

2  Earth's  genuine  sons,  the  sceptred,  and  the  slave, 
A  mingled  mob  !  a  wand'ring  herd  !  he  sees, 
Bewildered  in  the  vale  ;  in  all  unlike  ! 

His  full  reverse  in  all !  What  higher  praise  I 
What  stronger  demonstration  of  the  right  ? 
The  present  all  their  care  ;  the  future  his. 
When  public  welfare  calls,  or  private  want. 
They  give  to  fame  ;  his  bounty  he  conceals. 
Their  virtues  varnish  nature  ;  his  exalt. 
Mankind's  esteem  they  court ;  and  he  his  own. 

3  Theirs  the  wild  chase  of  false  felicities  ; 
His,  the  composed  possession  of  the  true. 
Alike  throughout  is  his  consistent  piece, 
All  of  one  colour,  and  an  even  thread  ; 
While  party-colour'd  shades  of  happiness. 
With  hideous  gaps  between,  patch  up  for  them 
A  madman's  robe ;  each  puff  of  fortune  blows 
The  tatters  by,  and  shows  their  nakedness. 

4  He  sees  with  other  eyes  than  theirs  ;  where  they 
Behold  a  sun,  he  'spies  a  Deity  ; 

What  makes  them  only  smile,  makes  him  adore. 
Where  they  see  mountains,  he  but  atoms  sees  ; 
An  empire  in  his  balance,  weighs  u  grain. 
Tliey  things  terrestrial  worship,  as  divine  ; 
His  hopes  immortal  blow  them  by,  as  dust, 
That  dims  his  sight  and  shoitens  his  survey 
WTiich  longs,  in  infinite,  to  lose  all  bound  « 


T    IJ. 


Chap.  IV.         DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 


ao7 


5  Titles  and  honours  (if  they  prove  his  fate) 

He  lays  aside  to  find  his  dignity; 

No  dignity  they  find  in  aught  besides. 

They  triumpii  in  externals,  (which  conceal 

Man's  real  glory,)  proud  of  an  eclipse : 

Himself  too  much  he  prizes  to  be  proud  ; 

And  nothing  thinks  so  gv*eat  in  man,  as  man. 

Too  dear  he  holds  his  interest  to  neglect 

Another's  welfare,  or  his  right  invade ; 

Their  interest,  like  a  lion,  lives  on  prey, 
o  They  kindle  at  the  shadow  of  a  wrong ; 

Wrong  he  sustains  with  temper,  looks  on  heav'n, 

Nor  stoops  to  think  his  injurer  his  foe: 

Nought,  bat  what  wounds  his  virtue,  wounds  his  peace. 

A  cover'd  heart  their  character  defends  ; 

A  cover'd  heart  denies  him  half  his  praise. 
7  With  nakedness  his  innocence  agrees! 

While  their  broad  folia^^e  testifies  their  fall  I 

There  no  joys  end,  where  his  full  feast  begins  : 

His  joys  create,  theirs  murder,  future  bliss. 

To  triumph  in  existence,  his  alone; 
'    And  his  alone  triumphantly  to  think 

His  true  existence  is  not  yet  begun. 

His  glorious  course  was  yesterday,  complete : 

Death,  then,  was  welcome;  yet  life  still  is  sweet.-Toui 

SECTION  VIII. 

The  pleasttrea  of  Retirement, 

0  KNEW  he  but  his  happiness,  of  men 
The  happiest  he !  who,  far  from  public  rage, 
Deep  in  the  vale,  with  a  choice  few  retired, 
Drinks  the  pure  pleasures  rf  the  rural  life. 
2  What  tho'  the  dome  be  wanting,  whose  proud  gate 
Each  morning,  vomits  out  the  sneaking  crowd 
Of  flatterers  false,  and  in  their  turn  abus'd  t 
Vile  intercourse !  What  though  the  glittVing  robe, 
Of  ev'iy  hue  reflected  light  can  give, 
Or  floated  loose,  or  stiff  with  mazy  gold, 
The  pride  and  gaze  of  fools,  oppress  him  not  ? 
What  tho',  from  utmost  land  and  sea  purveyed. 
For  him  each  rarer  tributary  life 
Bleeds  not,  and  his  insatiate  table  heaps 
With  luxury,  and  death  1  What  tho'  his  bowl 
Flames  not  with  costly  juice  ;  nor  sunk  in  beds 
Oft  of*gay  care,  he  tosses  out  the  night. 


',  (| 


208 


'  rr^-^TW"  -T.il^r'' 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  H 


Or  melts  the  thoughtless  hours  in  idle  state  ? 
What  tho'  he  knows  not  those  fantastic  jcys, 
That  still  amuse  the  wanton,  still  deceive  ; 
A  face  of  pleasure,  but  a  heart  of  pain ; 
Their  hollow  moments  undelighted  all  ? 
Sure  peace  is  his  ;  a  solid  life  estranged 
To  disappointment  and  fallacious  hope. 

3  Rich  in  content,  in  nature's  bounty  rich, 

In  herbs  and  fruits  ;  whatever  greens  the  spring, 

MTien  heaven  descends  in  showers ;  or  bends  tlie  bough 

When  summer  reddens,  and  when  autumn  beams  : 

Or  in  the  wintry  glebe  whatever  lies 

Conceal'd,  and  fattens  with  the  richest  sap  : 

These  are  not  wanting;  nor  the  milky  drove, 

Luxuriant  spread  o'er  all  the  lowing  vale ; 

Nor  bleating  mountaini3;  nor  the  chide  of  streams, 

And  hum  of  bees,  inviting  sleep  sincere 

Into  the  guiltless  breast,  beneath  the  shade, 

Or  thrown  at  large  amid  the  fragrant  hay  ; 

Nor  aught  besides  of  prospect,  grove,  or  song, 

Dim  grottos,  gleaming  lakes,  and  fountains  clear. 

4  Here  too  dwells  simple  truth  ;  plain  innocence  ; 
Unsullied  beauty  ;  sound  unbroken  youth, 
Patient  of  labour,  with  a  little  pleas'd  ; 

Health  ever  blooming ;  unambitious  toil ; 

Calm  contemplation,  and  poetic  ease. — Thomson. 

SECTION  IX. 

The  Pleasvre  and  Benefit  of  an  improved  and  well-directed 

Imagination, 
OH  !  blest  of  Heav'n,  who  not  the  languid  song's 
Of  luxury,  the  siren !  not  the  bribes 
Of  sordid  wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  Honour,  can  seduce  to  leave 
Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  which,  from  the  store 
Of  nature,  fair  imagination  culls. 
To  charm  th'  enliven'd  soul !  What  tho'  aot  all 
Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  height 
Of  envied  life  ;  tho*  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures,  or  imperial  state  ; 
Yet  nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just, 
With  richer  treasures,  and  an  ampler  state, 
Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 


Will  deign  to  use  them. 


'!he  rural  honoui'&  lik 


^^ 


His  the  city's  pomp. 


Chap.  IV.       DESCRIPTIVE  PIECES. 


20i) 


The  princely  dome,  tho  column,  and  the  arch, 
The  breathinjB^  marble  and  the  sculptural  ^old, 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim, 
Tlis  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him,  the  spring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  jrem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds  :  for  him,  the  hand 
Of  autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like  the  morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings  ; 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk,   , 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him. 

3  Not  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow ;  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  sun's  effulgence  ;  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 

•  Ascends ;  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh  pleasure,  unreprov'd.     Nor  thence  partakes 
Fresh  pleasure  only  ;  for  th'  attentive  mind, 
By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 
Becomes  herself  harmonious  :  wont  so  oft 
In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 
Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home, 
To  find  a  kindred  order ;  to  exert 
Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love. 
This  fair  inspired  delight :  her  tempered  pov>  'rs 
liefine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 

4  But  if  to  ampler  prospects,  if  to  gaze 

On  nature's  form,  where,  negligent  cS  all 

These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  port 

Of  that  Eternal  Majesty  that  weigh'd 

The  world's  foundations  ;  if  to  these  the  mind 

Exalts  her  daring  eye ;  then  mightier  far 

Will  be  the  change,  and  nobler.     Would  the  forms 

Of  servile  custom  cramp  her  gen'rous  pow'rs  ? 

Would  sordid  policies,  the  barbarous  growth 

Of  ignorance  and  rapine,  bow  her  down 

To  tame  pursuits,  to  indolence  and  fear  ? 

5  Lo !  she  appeals  to  nature,  to  the  winds 

And  rolling  waves,  the  sun's  unwearied  course, 
The  elements  and  seasons :  all  declare 
For  what  the  eternal  maker  has  ordain'd 
The  pow'rs  of  man :  we  feel  within  ourselves 
His  energy  divine ;  he  tells  the  heart, 
He  mevit,  ht  made  us  to  behold  and  lovt 

92 


'■I 

I-  I 


y 


it 


110 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  II 


"^Vhat  he  brholds  and  lovps,  the  general  orb 

Of  life  and  being  ;  to  be  great  like  Him, 

Heneficent  and  active.     Thus  the  men 

Whom  nature's  worku  instruct,  witli  God  himself 

Hold  converse  ;  grow  familiar,  day  by  day, 

With  his  conceptions  ;  act  upon  his  plan  ; 

And  form  to  his,  the  relish  of  their  souls. — akf.nripf.. 


I 


CHAPTER  V. 
FJiTHETW  PIECES. 

SECTION  T. 

The  Hermit. 

A^  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  stifl,      • 

And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgelfulness  prove  ; 
When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 

And  nought  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  tiie  grove  ; 
'Twas  thus  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar. 

While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  hermit  btgan 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war,  ^ 

He  thought  as  a  sage,  tho'  he  felt  as  a  man. 
9  "  Ah  !  why,  all  ahandon'd  to  darkness  and  ^vo  •; 

Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall  ? 
For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthral. 
But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay  ; 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn ; 
O  sooth  him  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away  ; 

Full  quickly  they  pass — but  they  never  return. 
8  *♦  Now  gliding  remote,  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 

The  moon  half  extinguish'd  her  crescent  displays  ; 
But  lately  I  mark'd,  when  majestic  on  high 

She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze.. 
Holl  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 

The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendour  again  : 
But  man's  faded  gtory  what  change  shall  renew ! 

^ii  fool !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 
"4  *  'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more  : 

I  mourn  ;  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you  ; 
For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  restore, 

Perfum'd  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glitt'ring  with  dew 
JjFbr  vet  ior  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn  ; 

Kind  nature  the  embr}^  blossoni  will  save  ; 


^ART  II 


Chap.  V. 


PATHFTIC  WFCES. 


211 


6 


But  when  shall  spring  visit  tlie  mouldering  urn  ! 

O  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  ni:;ht  of  the  grave  ! 
*'  'Twas  thus  hy  the  glare  of  false  science  hetray'd, 

That  leads,  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles,  to  blind  ; 
My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward  to  shav    ^ 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 
0  pity,  great  Father  of  light,  then  1  cried. 

Thy  creature  who  fain  wouhl  not  wander  from  thee 
Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  i  relinquish  my  pride  ; 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst  free. 
♦'  And  darkness  and  dotibt  are  now  Hying  away  ; 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn  : 
So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 
See  truth,  love,  and  mercy,  in  ti  iumph  descending, 

And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  tirst  bloom ! 
On  the  coW  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses  are  blending, 

And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb." 

JJEATTIC. 

SECTION  II. 

The   lie^^ar^s  Pelilion, 
PITY  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your  dowi* ; 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span  ; 

Oh  I  give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 
These  tatter'd  clothes  my  poverty  bespeak  ; 

These  hoary  locks  proclaim  my  lengthened  years ; 
And  many  a  fun'ow  in  my  grief-worn  cheek, 

Has  been  the  channel  to  a  flood  of  tears. 
Yon  house,  erected  on  the  rising  ground, 

With  tempting  aspect  drew  me  from  my  road  ; 
For  plenty  there  a  residence  has  found, 

And  grandeur  a  magnificent  abode. 
Haivi  is  the  fate  of  the  infirm  and  poor ! 

Here,  as  1  crav'd  a  morsel  of  their  bread, 
A  pamperM  menial  drove  me  from  the  door^ 

To  seek  a  shelter  in  an  humbler  shed. 
Oh  !  take  me  to  your  hospitable  dome  ; 

Keen  blows  the  wind,  and  piercing  is  the  cold  ! 
Short  is  my  passage  to  the  friendly  tomb  ; 

For  I  am  poor,  and  miserably  old. 
Should  I  reveal  the  sources  of  my  grief, 

If  soft  humanity  e'er  tonch'd  your  breast,     ■ 
Your  hands  would  not  withhold  thp  kind  reHef, 

And  tears  of  pity,  would  not  43e  represt. 


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Ci 


7  Heav'n  sends  misfortunes ;  v'hy  should  we  repine  ? 

'Tis  Heav'n  has  brought  me  to  the  state  you  see ; 
And  your  condition  may  be  soon  like  mine, 
The  child  of  sorrow  and  of  misery. 

8  A  little  farm  was  my  paternal  lot ; 

Then,  like  tlie  lark,  I  sprightly  hail'd  the  morn  ; 
But  ah !  oppression  forc'd  me  from  my  cot, 
My  cattle  died,  and  blighted  was  my  corn. 

9  My  daughter,  once  the  comfort  of  my  age, 

LurM  by  a  villain  from  her  native  home, 
Is  cast  abandoned  on  the  world's  wide  stage, 
And  doom*d  in  scanty  poverty  to  roam. 

10  My  tender  wife,  sweet  soother  of  my  care  ! 

Struck  with  sad  anguish  at  the  stern  decree, 
Fell,  ling'ring  fell,  a  victim  to  despair ! 

And  left  the  world  to  wretchedness  and  me. 

11  Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  oM  man, 

Whose  tremblirjg  limbs  have  born  him  to  your  door ; 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span  ; 
Oh !  give  rehef,  and  Heav'n  vvlil  bless  your  store. 

SECTION  HI. 

Unhappy  close  of  Life. 

HOW  shocking  must  thy  summons  be,  O  Death  I 
To  kim  that  is  at  ease  in  his  possessions  ! 
Who,  counting  on  long  yeai*s  of  pleasure  here. 
Is  quite  unfurnished  for  the  w  orld  to  come  ! 
In  that  dread  moment,  how  the  frantic  soul 
Raves  round  the  walls  of  her  clay  tenement ; 
Runs  to  each  avenue,  and  shrieks  for  help  ; 
But  shrieks  in  vain  !  How  wishfully  she  looks 
On  all  she's  leaving,  now  no  longer  her's  ! 

2  A  little  longer ;  yet  a  little  longer  ; 

O,  might  she  stay  to  wash  away  her  stains  ! 
And  fit  her  for  her  passage !  Mournful  sight ! 
Her  very  eyes  weep  blood  ;  and  ev'ry  groan 
She  heaves  is  big  with  horror.     But  the  foe. 
Like  a  staunch  murd'rer,  steady  to  his  purpose, 
Pursues  her  close,  thro'  ev'ry  lane  of  life  ; 
Nor  misses  once  the  track  ;  but  presses  on, 
Till,  forc'd  at  last  to  the  tremendous  verge, 
At  once  she  sinkg  to  everlasting  ruin.-— blair 


Chap.  V. 


PATHETIC  iPlECES. 


213 


SECTION  IV. 

Elegy  to  Pity, 

HAIL,  lovely  pow'r !  whose  bosom  heaves  the  sigh, 
When  fancy  paints  the  scene  of  deep  distress ! 

Whose  tears  spontaneous,  crystallize  the  eye, 
When  rigid  fate  denies  the  pow'r  to  ble;js. 

2  Not  all  the  sweets  Arabia's  gales  convey 

From  flow'ry  meads,  can  with  that  sigh  compare  ; 
Not  dew-drops  glittering  in  the  morning  ray, 
Seem  near  so  beauteous  as  that  falling  tear. 

3  Devoid  of  fear  the  fawns  around  thee  play  ; 

Emblem  of  peace,  the  dove  before  thee  flies ; 
No  blood- stain'd  traces  mark  thy  blameless  way  ; 
Beneath  thy  feet,  no  hapless  insect  dies. 

4  Come,  lovely  nymph,  and  range  the  mead  with  me, 

To  spring  the  partridge  from  the  guileful  foe : 
From  secret  snares  the  struggling  bird  to  free  ; 
And  stop  the  hand  uprais'd  to  give  the  blow. 

5  And  when  the  air  with  heat  meridian  glows. 

And  nature  droops  beneath  the  conquVing  gleam, 
Let  us,  slow  wandering  where  the  current  flows, 
Save  sinking  flies  that  float  along  the  stream. 

6  Or  turn  to  nobler,  greater  tasks  thy  care, 

To  me  thy  sympathetic  gifts  impart  j 
Teach  me  in  friendship's  griefs  to  bear  a  share, 
And  justly  boast  the  gen'rous  feeling  heart. 

7  Teach  me  to  soothe  the  helpless  orphan's  grief ; 

With  timely  aid  the  widow's  woes  assuage  ; 
To  mis'ry's  moving  cries  to  yield  relief ; 
And  be  the  sure  resource  of  drooping  age. 

8  So  when  the  genial  spring  of  life  shall  fade, 

And  sinking  nature  own  the  dread  decay, 
Some  soul  congenial  then  may  lend  its  Mtly"^^ 
And  gild  the  close  of  life's  eventful  day.     - 

SECTION  V. 

Verses  supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander  Selkirky  during 
Ms  solitary  abode  in  the  Island  of  Juan  Fernandez, 

I  AM  monarch  of  all  I  survey. 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute ; 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 


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Oh  solitude!  where  are  the  charms, 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms. 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

e  I  am  out  of  humanity's  reach ; 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone  : 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech  ^ 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain^ 

My  form  with  indifference  see; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man. 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

18,  Society,  friendship,  and  loVe, 

•     Divinely  bestowM  upon  man, 
*^   Oh,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove, 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again  I 
fly  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 

In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth  ; 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 
And  be  cheered  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

4  Religion !   what  treasure  untold 

Resides  in  that  heavenly  word ! 
Alore  precious  than  silver  or  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell, 

These  vallies  and  rocks  never  heard  ; 
Ne'er  sigh'd  at  the  sound  of  a  knell. 

Or  smiPd  when  a  sabbath  appeared. 

5  Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore. 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend. 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see* 

6  How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind ! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind. 

And  the  swift-wing'd  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there ; 
But  alas !  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 


Chap.  V. 


PATHETIC  PIECES. 


HIB 


7  But  the  sea-fowl  has  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place  ; 

And  mercy — encouraging  thought! 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace. 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. — cowp£r. 

SECTION  VI. 

Gratitude, 

WHEN  all  thy  mercies,  O  my  God  I 

My  rising  soul  surveys. 
Transported  with  the  view,  Tm  lost 

In  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 

2  O  how  shall  words  with  equal  warmth, 

The  gratitude  declare. 
That  glows  within  my  ravish'd  heart ! 
But  thou  canst  read  it  there.    , 

3  Thy  providence  my  life  sustained, 

And  all  my  wants  redrest, 
When  in  the  silent  womb  I  lay. 
And  hung  upon  the  breast. 

4  To  all  my  weak  complaints  and  cries. 

Thy  mercy  lent  an  ear. 
Ere  yet  my  feeble  thoughts  had  learn'd 
To  form  themselves  in  pray'r. 

3  Unnumber'd  comforts  to  my  soul 
Thy  tender  care  bestow'd, 
Before  my  infant  heart  conceived 

From  whom  those  comforts  flowM. 

6  When,  in  the  slipp'ry  paths  of  youth, 

With  heedless  steps,  I  ran, 
Thine  arm,  unseen,  conveyed  me  safe, 
And  led  me  up  to  man. 

7  Through  hidden  dangers,  toils  and  deaths, 

It  gently  clear'd  my  way  ; 
And  through  the  pleasing  snares  of  vice, 
More  to  be  fear'd  than  they. 

8  When  worn  with  sickness,  oft  hast  thou, 

With  heal'iii  renew'd  my  face  ; 
And  when  in  sins  and  sorrows  sunk, 
Reviv^  my  soul  with  grace. 


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*&  Thy  bounteous  hand,  with  worldly  bliss, 
Haa  made  my  cup  run  o*er ; 
And,  in  a  kind  and  faithful  friend, 
Has  doubled  all  my  store. 

10  Ten  thousand  thousand  precious  gifts, 

My  daily  thanks  employ ; 
Nor  is  the  least  a  cheerful  heart. 

That  tastes  those  gifts  with  joy. 

11  Through  ev'ry  period  of  my  life, 

Thy  goodness  I'll  pursue  ; 
And,  after  death,  in  distant  world.-?. 
The  glorious  theme  renew. 

12  When  nature  fails,  and  day  and  night 

Divide  thy  works  no  more, 
My  ever-grateful  heart,  O  Lord ! 
Thy  mercy  shall  adore. 

13  Through  all  eternity,  to  thee 

A  joyful  song  I'll  raise  ; 
For  0  !  eternity's  too  short 

To  utter  all*  thy  praise. — addison. 

SECTION  VIL 

S  Jdan  perishing  in  the  Snoiv ;  from  tchence  Reflections  are 
raised  on  the  miseries  of  Life, 

AS  thus  the  snows  arise  ;  and  foul  and  fierce, 
All  winter  drives  along  the  darken'd  air ; 
In  his  own  loose-revolving  field,  the  swain 
Disaster'd  stands  ;  sees  other  hills  ascend, 
Of  unknown  joyless  brow ;  and  other  scenes, 
Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless  plain ; 
Nor  finds  the  river,  nor  the  forest,  hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild  ;  but  zanders  on, 
From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and  more  astray  ; 
Impatient  flouncing  through  the  drifted  heaps. 
Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home  ;  the  thoughts  of  home 
Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  call  their  vigour  fortn 
In  many  a  vain  attempt. 
2  How  sinks  his  soul ! 

What  black  despair,  what  horror  fills  his  heart ! 
When,  for  the  dusky  spot,  which  fancy  feign'd 
His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the  anow, 
He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle  waste, 
Far  from  the  ti*ack,  and  blest  abode  of  man  ;  ] 

While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast, 
And  ev'ry  tempest  howling  o*er  his  heaH, 


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Cjiap.  VII!.        PATHETIC  PIECES. 


217 


Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 

3  Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into  his  mind, 
Of  cover'd  pits,  unfathomably  deep, 

A  dire  descent,  beyond  the  powV  of  frost ! 

Of  faithless  bogs  ;  of  precipices  huge. 

Smoothed  up  with  snow;  and  what  is  land,  unknowU) 

What  water,  of  the  still  unfrozen  spring. 

In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake, 

Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the  bottom  boils, 

4  These  check  his  fearful  steps ;  and  down  he  sinks 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drill, 
Thinking  o*er  all  the  bitterness  or  death, 

Mix'd  with  the  tender  anguish  nature  shoo*:? 
Through  tlie  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man, 
His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends  unseen. 

5  In  vain  for  him  the  officious  wife  prepares 
The  fire  fair-blazing,  and  the  vestment  warm  ; 
In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping  out 

Into  the  mingled  storm,  demand  their  sire. 
With  tears  of  artless  innocence.     Alas  ! 
Nor  wife,  nor  children,  more  shall  he  behold  ; 
•  JVor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.     On  every  nerve 
The  deadly  winter  seizes ;  shuts  up  sense  ; 
And,  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold. 
Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffened  corse, 
Stretch'd  out,  and  bleaching  in  the  northern  blast. 

6  Ah,  little  think  the  gay  licentious  proud. 
Whom  pleasures,  pow'r,  and  affluence  surround ; 
They  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth, 
And  wanton,  often  cruel  riot,  waste ; 

Ah  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along, 

How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  death, 

Aiid  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain ! 

How  many  sink  in  tiie  devouring  flood, 

Or  more  devouring  fiame  !  How  many  bleed, 

By  shameful  variance  betwixt  man  and  man! 

7  How  many  pine  in  want,  in  dungeon  glooms, 
Shut  from  the  common  air,  and  common  use 
Of  their  own  limbs !  How  many  drink  the  cup 
Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 

Of  misery!  Sore  pierc'd  by  wintiy  winds, 
How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty  !  How  many  shake  \^ 

^Vith  all  the  nercer  tortures  of  the  mind,  " 

Unbounded  passion,  madness,  guilty  remorse ! 


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Part  U. 


I 


8  How  many,  iac':*d  with  honest  passions,  droop 
!i  deep  relirV  rlistress !  How  many  stand 
Around  the  deaih-bed  of  their  dearest  friends. 
And  point  the  parting  anguish  !  Thought  fond  man 
Of  these,  and  all  the  thousand  nameless  ills, 
That  one  incessant  struggle  render  life. 
One  scene  of  toil,  of  suH'ering,  and  of  fate, 
Vice  in  liis  high  career  would  stand  appall'd 
And  heedless  rambling  impulse  learn  to  think  ; 
The  conscious  heart  of  charity  would  warm, 
Aud  her  wide  wish  benevolence  dilate  ; 
The  social  tear  would  rise,  the  social  sigh  ; 
And  into  clear  perfection,  gradual  bliss, 
Refining  still,  the  social  pass  ons  work. — Thomson. 

SECTION  vin. 

A  JSIorning  Hymn, 

THESE  are  thy  glorious  works,  parent  of  good, 
Almighty,  thine  this  universal  frame,  * 

Thus  woudVous  fair;  thyself  how  wond'rous  then  ! 
Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens, 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen  • 

In  these  thy  lower  works  ;  yet  tlieae  declare 
Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  aud  powV  divine.. 

2  Speak  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
Angels  ;  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  n'ght, 
Circle  his  throne  rejoicing ;  ye,  in  heaven, 
On  earth,  join  all  ye  creatures  to  extol 

Him  first,  Him  last,  Him  midst,  and  without  end. 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 

If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn. 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 

With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere, 

While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world,  both  eye  and  soul, 

Acknowledge  him  thy  greater,  sound  his  praise 

In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb^st, 

And  when  hiifh  noon  hast  gained,  and  when  thou  falPst. 

3  IV'oon,  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now  fly'st, 
With  the  fix*d  stars,  fix'd  m  their  orb  that  fiies ; 
And  ye  five  other  wand'ring  fires  tliat  move 

In  mystic  dance,  not  without  song,  resound 
His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  call'd  up  light. 
Air,  am'?  ye  Hemen**?.  the  oldest  birth 


5 


6 


Chap.  VL 


IROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


219 


Of  nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 
Perpetual  circle,  multilcrm,  and  mix 
And  nourish  aU  things  ;  let  your  ceaseless  change 
Vary  to  our  great  maker  still  new  praise. 

4  Ve  mists  and  exhalations  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  streaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 
Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honour  to  the  world's  great  author  rise! 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  th'  uncolour'd  sky, 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  show'rs, 
Rising  or  falling,  still  advance  his  praise. 

5  His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 
Breathe  soft  or  loud  -.  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 
With  ev'ry  plant,  in    ign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble  as  ye  flow 
Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 
Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls ;  ye  birds, 

That  singing,  up  to  heaven's  gate  ascend, 
Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 

6  Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 
The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lov  ly  creep; 
Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  eve.i, 

To  hill,  or  valley,  fountain,  or  fresh  shade 

Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 

Hail,  UNIVERSAL  Lord!  be  bounteous  still 

To  give  us  only  good;  and  if  the  night 

Has  gather'd  aught  of  evil,  or  conceal'd, 

Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark. — miltoS . 


m 


!;  n 


2L 


CHAPTKll  VI. 
PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

Ode   to   Content. 
O  THOU,  the  nymph  with  placid  eye ! 
O  seldom  found,  yet  ever  nigh! 

Receive  my  temp'rate  vow. 
Not  all  the  storms  that  shake  the  pole 
Can  e'er  disturb  thy  halcyon  soul, 

And  smooth,  unaJter'd  brow. 
O  come,  in  simplest  vest  array 'd, 
With  all  thy  sober  cheer  display'd, 

To  bless  my  longing  sight ; 


If;;; 

Mi! 

1!^ 


^20 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  U 


! 

if 


Thy  mien  compos'd,  thy  even  pace, 

Thy  meek  regard,  thy  matron  grace, 

And  chaste  subdu*d  delight. 

3  No  more  by  varying  passions  beat, 

0  gently  guide  my  pilgrim  feet 

To  find  thy  hermit  cell ; 
Where  in  some  pure  and  equal  sky. 
Beneath  thy  soft  indulgent  eye, 

The  modest  virtues  dwell. 

4  Simplicity  in  attic  vest, 

And  innocence,  with  candid  breast, 

And  clear  undaunted  eye ; 
And  Hope,  who  points  to  distant  years, 
Fair  opening  thro*  this  vale  .of  tears 

A  vista  to  the  sky. 
6  There  Health,  thro'  whose  calm  bosom  glide 
The  temperate  joys  in  even  tide. 

That  rarely  ebb  or  flow ; 
And  Patience  there,  thy  sister  meek. 
Presents  her  mild  unvarying  cheek. 

To  meet  the  oflerM  blow. 

6  Her  influence  taught  the  Phrygian  sage 
A  tyrant  master's  wanton  rage. 

With  settled  smiles,  to  meet: 
Inur'd  to  toil  and  bitter  bread, 
He  bow'd  his  meek  submitted  head, 

And  kiss'd  thy  sainted  feet. 

7  But  thou,  O  nymph,  retired  and  coy! 
In  what  brown  hamlet  dost  thou  joy 

To  tell  thy  tender  tale? 
The  lowliest  children  of  the  ground, 
Moss-rose  and  violet  blossom  round, 

And  lily  of  the  vale. 

5  O  say  what  soft  propitious  hour 

1  best  may  choose  to  hail  thy  pow'r. 

And  court  thy  gentle  sway? 
When  autumn,  friendly  to  the  muse. 
Shall  thy  own  modest  tints  diffuse. 

And  shed  thy  milder  day? 
9  When  eve,  her  dewy  star  beneath^ 

Thy  balmy  spirit  loves  to  breathe,  r  : 

And  ev'ry  storm  is  laid  ? 
If  such  an  hour  was  e'er  thy  choice,  r     . 

Oil  let  me  hear  thy  soothing  voice, 

.  Low  whisp'ring  through  the  shade.-BARBAULD 


kllT  U 


Ohaf.  yi.     promiscuous  pieces. 


991 


ULIX 


SKCTION  11. 

The  Shepherd  and  the  Philosopher. 

REMOTE  from  cities  livM  a  swain, 
Unvex'd  with  all  the  cares  of  gain ; 
His  head  was  silver'd  o'er  with  age, 
And  long  experience  made  him  sage ; 
In  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold, 
He  fed  his  llock,  and  penri'd  the  fold  ; 
His  hours  in  cheerful  lahour  fl«w. 
Nor  envy,  nor  ambition  knew : 
His  wisdom  and  his  honest  fame 
Through  all  the  country  rais'd  his  name. 

A  deep  philosopher  (whose  rules 
Of  moral  life  were  drawn  from  schools) 
The  shepherd's  homely  cottage  sought, 
And  thus  explor'd  his  reach  of  thought. 

"  Whence  is  thy  learning?  Ilath  thy  toil 
O'er  books  consum'd  the  midnight  oIH 
Hast  thou  old  Greece  and  Rome  survey'd. 
And  the  vast  sense  of  Plato  weigh'd  ? 
Ilath  Socrates  thy  soul  refin'd, 
And  hast  thou  fathom'd  Tully's  mind  ? 
Or,  like  the  wise  Ulysses,  thrown, 
By  various  fates,  on  realms  unknown, 
Hast  thou  through  many  cities  strayed, 
Their  customs,  laws,  and  manners  weigh'rf]?* 
The  shepherd  modestly  replied,        ^■jp>      ^ 
"  I  ne'er  the  paths  of  learning  tried  ; 
Nor  have  1  roam'd  in  foreign  parts, 
To  read  mankind,  their  laws  and  arts  : 
For  man  is  practis'd  in  disguise  ; 
He  cheats  the  most  discerning  eyes. 
Who  by  that  search  shall  wiser  grow  ? 
By  that  ourselves  we  never  know. 
The  little  knowledge  I  have  s^ain'd, 
W^as  all  from  simple  natuie  diain'd  ; 
Hence  my  life's  ir.uxims  took  their  rise, 
Hence  grew  my  settled  hate  of  vice. 
The  daily  labours  of  the  bee 
Awake  my  soul  to  liidutiti'v. 
Who  can  obyci've  the  cdiefiil  aiit, 
And  not  provide  for  futuic  ^vant  1 
My  dog  (the  trustiest  of  his  kuid) 
Willi  gratitude  iuila'       my  iv.hiJ.. 

T2 


ki'i 


i''\ 


222 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  H* 


< 


I  mark  his  tnic,  iiis  faithful  way, 
And,  in  my  service,  copy  Tray. 
In  constancy  and  nuptial  love, 
I  learn  my  duty  from  the  dove. 
The  hen,  who  from  the  chilly  air, 
With  pious  wing,  protects  her  care, 
And  evVy  fowl  that  flies  at  large, 
Instructs  me  in  a  parent's  charge. 

5  From  nature  too  1  take  my  rule, 
To  shun  contempt  and  ridicule. 

I  never,  with  important  air, 

In  conversation  overbear. 

Can  grave  and  formal  pass  for  wise, 

When  men  the  solemn  owl  despise? 

My  tongue  within  my  lips  I  rein ; 

For  who  talks  much  must  talk  in  vain. 

We  from  the  wordy  torrent  fly ; 

Who  listens  to  the  chatt'ring  pye? 

Nor  would  1,  with  felonious  flight. 

By  stealth  invade  my  neighbour's  right. 

6  Rapacious  animals  we  hate  ; 

Kites,  hawks,  and  wolves,  deserve  their  fate. 

Do  not  we  just  abhorrence  find 

Against  the  toad  and  serpent  kind  ? 

But  envy,  calumny,  and  spite, 

Bear  stronger  venom  in  their  bite. 

Thus  ev'ry  object  of  creation 

Can  furnish  hints  to  contemplation  ; 

And,  from  the  most  minute  and  mean* 

A  virtuous  mind  can  morals  glean." 

7  "  Thy  fame  is  just,"  the  sage  replies  ; 
"  Thy  virtue  proves  thee  truly  wise. 
Pride  often  guides  the  author's  pen,  • 
Books  as  aff'ected  are  as  men : 

But  he  who  studies  nature's  laws. 
From  cf^rtain  truth  his  maxims  draws', 
And  those,  without  our  schools,  suffice 
To  make  men  moral,  good,  and  wise." — gat. 

SECTION  in. 

The  Road  to  Happiness  open  to  all  J)len» 

OH  happiness !  our  being's  end  and  aim! 
Good,  pleasure,  ease,  content !  whate'er  thy  name  ; 
That  something  still  which  prompts  th'  eternal  sigh, 
For  which  we  bear  to  live,  or  dare  to  die: 


€ha?.  TI.        promiscuous  PIEC£S. 


n^ 


Which  still  so  near  us,  yet  beyond  us  lies, 

O'erlook'd,  seen  double,  by  the  fool  and  wine.; 

Plant  of  celestial  seed,  if  dropt  below. 

Say,  in  what  mortal  soil  thou  deign*st  to  grow  T 

Fair  op'ning  to  some  court's  propitious  shine, 

Or  deep  with  diamonds  in  the  flaming  mine? 

TwinM  with  the  wreaths  Parnassian  laurels  yield, 

Or  reap'd  in  iron  harvests  of  the  field  ? 

Where  grows  i  where  grows  it  not  ?  if  vain  our 

We  ought  to  blame  the  culture,  not  the  soil. 

Fix'd  to  no  spot  is  happiness  sincere ; 

'Tis  no  where  to  be  found,  or  ev'ry  where ; 

'Tis  never  to  be  bought,  but  always  free  ; 

And,  fled  from  monarchs,  St.  John !  dwells  with  thMr 

Ask  of  the  learn'd  the  way.     The  learn'd  are  blind  ; 

This  bids  to  serve,  and  that  to  shun  mankind : 

Some  place  the  bliss  in  action,  some  in  ease ; 

Those  call  it  pleasure,  and  contentment  these : 

Some  sunk  to  beasts,  find  pleasure  end  in  pail\i. 

Some  swelPd  to  gods,  confess  ev'n  virtue  vain .: 

Or  indolent  to  each  extreme  they  fall. 

To  trust  in  ev'ry  thing  or  doubt  of  all. 

Who  thus  deflne  it,  say  they  more  or  less 

Than  this,  that  happiness  is  happiness  1 

Take  nature's  path,  and  mad  opinions  leave ; 

All  states  can  reach  it,  and  all  heads  conceive; 

Obvious  her  goods,  in  no  extreme  they  dwell ; 

There  needs  but  thinking  right,  and  meaning  w^-: 

And  mourn  our  various  portions  as  we  pleaaej 

Equal  in  common  sense,  and  common  ease. 

Remember,  man,  ^*  the  universal  cause 
Acts  not  by  partial,  but  by  gen'ral  laws  ;*' 
And  makes  what  happiness  we  justly  call, 
Subsist  not  in  the  good  of  one,  but  all. — POtlT* 

SECTION  IV. 
The  Goodness  of  Providence. 

THE  liord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 

And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care ; 

His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 

And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye; 

My  noon-day  walks  he  shall  attend, 

And  ail  my  midnight  hours  defend. 
2  Whep  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint. 

Or  on  the  thirsty  mountains  pant : 


i! 


...  \  \ 

9  .i 


t 


I!  a 


i: 


114  THE  ENGLISH  READER.        I'art  IF 

To  fertile  vales,  and  dewy  meads, 
My  weary  warul'rinsj  steps  he  lends  ; 
Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

3  Tho'  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread, 

With  glooming  horrors  overspread,  J 

My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill ; 
For  thou,  O  Lord,  art  with  me  still ; 
Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid, 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

4  Tho*  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way. 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray. 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  pains  beguile  ; 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile, 

With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crowned, 

And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around.— addisoK* 

SECTION  V. 

The  Creator's  Works  attest  his  greatness, 

THE  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangl'd  heav'ns,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim ; 

Th'  unweariM  sun,  from  day  to  day, 

Does  his  Creator's  powV  display, 

And  publishes  tn  ev*ry  land, 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 
9  Soon  as  the  ev'ning  shades  prevail, 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wond'rous  tale; 

And,  nightly,  to  the  listening  earth, 

ftepeats  the  story  of  her  birth; 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn. 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 
3  What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 

Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ! 

What  tho'  no  real  voice  nor  sound. 

Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ! 

In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice  ; 

For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 

"  The  hand  fiiat  made  us,  in  Divine.'* — addison 


Ci 


RT  n 


Chap.  H.       PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


225 


SECTION  VI. 

An  Address  to  the  Deity, 

O  THOU !  whose  balance  does  the  mountains  weigh  ; 
Whose  will  the  wild  tumultuous  seas  obey ; 
"Whose  breath  can  turn  those  watery  worlds  to  flame, 
That  flame  to  tempest,  and  that  tempest  tame  ; 
Earth's  meanest  son,  all  trembling,  prostrate  falls, 
And  in  the  bounty  of  thy  goodness  calls. 
^  O  !  give  the  winds  all  past  offence  to  sweep, 
To  scatter  wide,  or  bury  in  the  deep. 
Thy  powV,  my  weakness,  may  I  ever  see, 
And  wholly  dedicate  my  soul  to  thee. 
Reign  o'er  my  will ;  my  passions  ebb  and  flow 
At  thy  command,  nor  Human  motive  know ! 
If  anger  boll,  let  anger  be  my  praise. 
And  sin  the  gi'aceful  indignation  raise. 
My  love  be  warm  to  (<uccour  the  distressed. 
And  lift  the  burden  from  the  soul  oppressed. 

3  O  may  my  understanding  ever  read 

This  glorious  volume  which  thy  wisdom  made  ! 

May  sea  and  land,  and  earth  and  heav'n,  be  join'd, 

To  bring  th'  eternal  Author  to  my  mind  I 

When  oceans  roar,  or  awful  thunders  roll. 

May  thoughts  of  thy  dread  vengeance,  shake  my  soul ! 

When  earth's  in  bloom,  or  planets  proudly  shine, 

Adore,  my  heart,  the  Majesty  divine ! 

4  Grant  I  may  ever,  at  the  morning  ray. 
Open  with  pray'r  the  consecrated  day  ; 
Tune  thy  great  praise,  and  bid  my  soul  arise, 
And  with  the  mounting  sun  ascend  the  skies  ; 
As  that  advances,  let  my  zeal  improve. 

And  glow  with  ardour  of  consummate  love  ; 
Nor  cease  at  eve,  but  with  the  setting  sun 
My  endless  worship  shall  be  still  begun. 

5  And  oh !  permit  the  gloom  of  solemn  night, 
To  sacred  thought  may  forcibly  invite. 
When  this  world's  shut,  and  awful  planets  rise. 
Call  on  our  minds,  and  raise  them  to  the  skies ! 
Compose  our  souls  with  a  less  daz/ling  sight, 
And  show  all  nature  in  a  milder  light ; 

How  ev'ry  boist'rous  thought  in  calm  subsides  ; 
How  the  smooth'd  spirit  into  goodness  glides ! 

6  Oh  how  divine !  to  trend  the  milky  way. 
To  the  bright  palace  of  the  liOixi  of  Day  ;. 


H 


226 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


His  court  admire,  or  for  his  favour  sue, 
Or  leagues  of  friendship  with  his  saints  renew  ; 
Pleased  to  look  down  and  see  the  world  asleep  ; 
While  I  long  vigils  to  its  Founder  keep  ! 

Canst  thou  not  shake  the  centre  ?  Oh,  control, 
Subdue  by  force,  the  rebel  in  my  soul ; 
Thou,  who  canst  still  the  raging  of  the  flood, 
Restrain  the  various  tumults  of  my  blood  ; 
Teach  me,  with  equal  firmness,  to  sustain 
Alluring  pleasure,  and  assaulting  pain* 
0  may  I  pant  for  thee  in  each  desire  ! 
A  nd  with  strong  faith  foment  the  holy  fire ! 
Stretch  out  my  soul  in  hope,  and  grasp  the  priz^, 
Which  in  eternity's  deep  bosom  lies  ! 
At  the  great  day  of  recompense  behold. 
Devoid  of  fear,  the  fatal  book  unfold  I 
Then  wafted  upward  to  the  blissful  seat, 
From  age  to  age  my  grateful  song  repeat ; 
My  Li^ht,  my  Life,  my  God,  my  Saviour  see^ 
And  rival  angels  in  the  praise  of  thee ! — young. 

SECTION  VII. 

The  pursuit  of  Happiness  often  ill-directed 

THE  midnight  moon  serenely  smiles 

O'er  nature's  soft  repose  ; 
No  low'ring  cloud  obscures  the  sky. 

Nor  ruffling  tempest  blows. 

2  Now  ev'ry  passion  sinks  to  rest. 

The  throbbing  heart  lies  still ; 
And  varying  schemes  of  life  no  more 
Distract  the  lab 'ring  will. 

3  In  silence,  hush'd  to  reason's  voice, . 

Attends  each  mental  pow'r  ; 
Come,  dear  Emilia,  and  enjoy 
Reflection's  fav'rite  hour. 

4  Come,  while  the  peaceful  scene  invitet^ 

Let's  search  this  ample  round  ; 
Where  shall  the  lovely  fleeting  form 
Of  happiness  be  found  ? 

5  Does  it  amidst  the  frolic  mirth 

Of  gay  assemblies  dwell ; 
Or  hide  beneath  the  solemn  gloom, 
That  shades  the  hermit's  cell? 

6  .How  oft  the  laughing  brow  of  joy, 

A  sick'ning  heart  conceals  ! 


*-•  , 


Chap.  VI. 


PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


227 


And,  through  the  cloister's  deep  recess, 
Invading  sorrow  steals. 

7  In  vain,  through  beauty,  fortune,  wit, 

The  fugitive  we  trace; 
It  dwells  not  in  the  faithless  smile 
That  brightens  Clodia's  i'ace. 

8  Perhaps  the  joy  to  these  deny*d. 

The  heart  in  friendship  finds  : 
Ah!  dear  delusion,  cray  conceit 
Of  visionary  minds* ! 

9  HoweVr  our  varying  notions  rove 

Ifet  all  agree  in  one. 
To  place  its  being  in  some  state. 
At  distance  from  our  own. 

10  O  blind  to  each  induljjent  aim, 

Of  powV  supremely  wise, 
Who  fancy  happiness  in  aught 
The  hand  of  heav'n  denies! 

11  Vain  is  alike  the  joy  we  soek. 

And  vain  what  we  possess, 
•        Unless  harmonious  reason  tunes% 
The  passions  into  peace. 

12  To  tempered  wishes,  just  desires, 

Is  haopiness  confinM ; 
And  deaf  to  folly's  call,  attends 
The  music  of  the  mind. — carter. 

SECTION  VTII. 

The  Fire-Side. 

DEAR  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd. 
The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud, 

In  folly's  maze  advance, 
Tho'  singularity  and  pride 
Be  call'd  our  choice,  we'll  step  aside. 
Nor  join  ^he  giddy  dance. 

2  From  the  gay  world,  we'll  oft  retire 
*         To  our  own  family  and  fire. 

Where  love  onr  hours  employs  ; 
No  noisy  neighbour  enters  here. 
No  intermeddling  stranger  near, 

To  fspoil  our  heart-felt  joys. 

3  If  solid  happiness  we  prize, 

.,  Within  our  breast  this  jewel  lies  • 

^"  And  thfT  are  fools  who  roam .       ;  •' 


fit 


228  THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  IL 


The  world  has  nothing  to  bestow  ; 
From  our  own  selves  our  joys  must  flow, 
And  that  dear  hut,  our  home. 

4  Of  rest  was  Noah's  dove  Ijcreft, 
When  with  impatient  wing  she  left 

That  safe  retreat,  .he  ark  ; 
Giving  her  vain  excui*sion  o*ei , 
The  disappointed  bird  once  more 

Explored  the  sacred  bark. 

5  Tho'  ibols  spurn  Hymen's  j^entle  powers, 
We,  who  improve  his  golden  iiours, 

By  sweet  experience  know, 
That  marriage  rightly  understood, 
Gives  to  the  tender  and  the  good 

A  paradise  below. 

6  Our  babes  shall  richest  comfort  bring  ; 
If  tutor'd  right,  they'll  prove  a  spring 

Whence  pleasures  ever  rise  ; 
We'll  form  their  minds,  with  studious  care, 
To  all  that's  manly,  good,  and  fair, 

And  tram  them  for  the  skies. 

7  While  they  our  wisest  hours  engage, 
They'll  joy  our  youth,  support  our  age. 

And  crown  our  hoary  hairs  ! 
They'll  grow  in  virtue  ev'ry  day, 
And  thus  our  fondest  loves  repay, 

And  recompense  our  cares. 

8  No  borrow'd  joys !  they're  all  our  own, 
While  to  the  world  we  live  unknown, 

Or  by  the  world  forgot ; 
Monarchs !  we  envy  not  your  state  ; 
We  look  with  pity  on  the  great. 

And  bless  our  humbler  lot. 

9  Our  portion  is  not  large  indeed  ! 
But  then  how  little  do  we  need  ! 

For  nature's  calls  are  few  : 
In  this  the  art  of  living  lies. 
To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

And  make  tliat  little  do. 
10  We'll  therefore  relish,  with  content, 
Whate'er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  pow'r ; 
For  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 
'Tie  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all,  ; .  c.'V 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour. 


Ch 


f 


A 
2  ( 


i 

.      1 

>.3  I 


IL 


Chap.  \I.         rROMlSClOUS  PIKCES. 


229 


11  To  be  rcsigird  nhei)  ills  betide, 
Patient  when  favoui's  are  denied, 

And  pleas'd  with  favours  giv'n  : 
Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom's  part , 
This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart, 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heaven. 

12  WeMl  ask  no  long  protracted  treat, 
Since  winter-life  is  seldom  sweet ; 

But  when  our  feast  is  oVr, 
Grateful  from  table  we'll  arise, 
Nor  grudge  our  sons  with  envious  eyes, 

The  relics  of  our  store. 

13  Thus,  hand  in  hand,  thro'  life  we'll  go  ; 
Its  checker'd  paths  of  joy  and  wo, 

With  cautious  steps,  we'll 'tread  ; 
Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a  tear, 
Without  a  trouble  or  a  fear. 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

14  While  conscience,  like  a  faithful  friend, 
Shall  thro'  the  gloomy  vale  attend, 

And  cheer  om*  dying  breath  ; 
Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease, 
Like  a  kind  ani(el  whisper  peace. 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  deaih. — cotton 

SECTION  IX. 

Providence  Vindicated  in  the  present  slate  of  J\1an. 

HEWN  from  all  creatures,  iiides  the  book  of  fate  ; 
All  but  the  page  prescrib'd,  their  present  state  ; 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know  : 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  beiow  ? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-duy, 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  I 
Pleas'd  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flow'ry  food, 
And  licks  the  hand  just  rais'd  to  shed  his  blood. 

2  Oil  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  giv'n 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  mark'd  by  Heav'n  ; 
Who  see8  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall ; 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurl'd, 
And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

3  Hope  humbly  then;  with  trembling  pinions  soar; 
*Wwt  the  great  teacher  Death ;  and  God  adore. 

What  future  bliss  lie  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 

U 


r.;. 


i 


?' 


i:  n. 

^ 

■      .--"A' 

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a;  ,s  J 

^i 

<i^% 

230 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  H 


!|i 


Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  liuman  breast : 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. 
The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 
Lo,  the  poor  Indian !  whose  untutor'd  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind  ; 
His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  Solar  Walk  or  Milky  Way, 
Yet,  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  giv'n. 
Behind  the  cloud -topt  hill,  a  humbler  heav'n  ; 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embrac'd. 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watr'y  waste  ; 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  beholc , 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
To  BE,  contents  his  natural  desire  ; 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire  ; 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

Go,  wiser  thou !  and  in  thy  scale  of  sense, 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence  , 
Call  imperfection  what  thou  fanciest  such  ; 
Say  here  he  gives  too  little,  there  too  much. — 
In  pride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies  ; 
All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies. 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes  ; 
Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be  gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  gods,  if  angels  fell, 
Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel : 
And  who  but  wishes  to  invert  the  laws 
Of  ORDER,  sins  against  tii'  eternal  cause. — pc. 

SECTION  X. 

Selfishness  Reproved. 

HAS  God,  thou  fool !  work'd  solely  for  thy  good. 
Thy  joy,  thy  pastime,  tliy  attire,  thy  food  'i 
Who  for  thy  table  feeds  the  wanton  fawn, 
For  him  as  kindly  spreads  the  flow'ry  lawji. 
Is  it  for  thee  the  lark  ascends  and  sings  ? 
Joy  tunes  his  voice,  joy  elevates  his  wings. 
Is  it  for  thee  the  linnet  pours  his  throat  ? 
Loves  of  his  own,  and  raptures  swell  the  note. 
The  bounding  steed  you  pompously  bestride. 
Shares  with  his  lord  the  pleasure  and  the  riride. .  v 
Is  thine  alone  the  seed  that  strews  the  plain  1 
The  birds  of  heav'a  shall  vindicate  their  grain. 


Chap.  VI.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


237 


Thine  the  full  harvest  of  the  golden  year  ? 

Part  pays,  and  justly,  the  deserving  steer. 

The  hog  that  ploughs  not,  nor  obeys  thy  call, 

Lives  on  the  labours  of  this  lord  of  all. 

Know,  nature's  children  all  divide  her  care  ; 

The  fur  that  warms  a  monarch,  warmM  a  bear. 

While  man  exclaims,   "  See  all  things  for  my  use  !** 

"  See  man  for  mine !"  replies  a  pamper'd  goose. 

And  just  as  short  of  reapon  he  must  fall, 

Who  things  all  made  for  one,  not  one  for  all. 

Grant  that  the  powVful  still  the  weak  control ; 

Be  man  the  wit  and  tyrant  of  the  whole  : 

Nature  that  tyrant  checks  ;  he  only  knows, 

And  helps  another  creature's  wants  and  woes. 

Say,  will  the  falcon,  stoo[)ing  from  above, 

Smit  with  her  varying  plunraae,  spare  the  dove? 

Admires  the  jay  the  insect's)  n^'Me'l  wings  ? 

Or  hears  the  hawk  when  Philomela  sings  1 

Man  cares  for  all :  to  birds  he  gives  his  woods, 

To  beasts  his  pastures,  and  to  fish  his  floods  ; 

For  some  his  int'rest  prompts  him  to  provide, 

For  more  his  pleasures,  yet  for  more  his  pride. 

All  feed  on  one  vain  patron,  and  enjoy 

Th'  extensive  blessing  of  his  luxury. 

That  very  life  his  leained  hunger  craves. 

He  saves  from  famine,  from  the  savage  saves ; 

Nay,  feasts  the  animal  he  dooms  his  feast ; 

And,  till  he  ends  tne  being,  makes  it  blest : 

Which  sees  no  more  the  stroke,  nor  feels  the  pain, 

Than  favourM  man  by  touch  ethereal  slain. 

The  creature  had  his  feast  of  life  before ; 

Thou  too  must  perish,  when  thy  feast  is  o'er ! — pope. 

SECTION  XI. 

Human  Frailty, 

WEAK  and  irresolute  is  man; 

The  purpose  of  to-day, 
Woven  with  pains  into  his  plan,  ;,  <. 

To-morrow  rends  away. 

2  The  bow  well  bent,  and  smart  the  spring, 

Vice  f^eems  already  slain  ; 
But  pa;  sion  rudely  snaps  the  string, 
And  it  revives  asjain. 

3  Some  foe  to  his  upright  intent,  ^ ''     ' 

Finds  out  his  weaker  part ;  <       > 


■'ill 


0 


232  THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  U 

Virtue  engages  his  assent, 
But  pleasure  wins  his  heart. 

4  'Tis  here  the  folly  of  the  wise, 

Through  ail  his  art,  we  view ; 
And  while  his  tongue  the  charge  denies, 
His  conscience  owns  it  true. 

5  Bound  on  a  voyage  of  awful  length, 

And  dangers  little  known, 

A  stranger  to  superior  strength, 

Man  vainly  trusts  his  own. 

6  But  oars  alone  can  ne'er  prevail 

To  reach  the  distant  coast ; 
The  breath  of  heav'n  must  swell  the  sail, 
Or  all  the  toil  is  lost. — cowper. 

SECTION  XII. 

Ode  to  Peace, 
COME,  peace  of  mind,  delightful  guest  ! 
Return,  and  make  thy  downy  nest 

Once  more  in  this  sad  heart : 
Nor  riches  I,  nor  pow'r  pursue. 
Nor  hold  forbidden  joys  in  view ; 

We  therefore  need  not  part. 

2  Where  wilt  thou  dwell,  if  not  with  me, 
From  av'rice  and  ambition  free, 

And  pleasure's  fatal  wiles ; 
For  whom,  alas !  dost  thou  prepare 
The  sweets  that  I  was  wont  to  share. 

The  banquet  of  thy  smiles  ? 

3  The  great,  the  gay,  shall  they  partake 
The  heav'n  that  thou  alone  canst  make ; 

And  wilt  thou  quit  the  stream, 
That  murmurs  through  the  dewy  mead, 
The  grove  and  the  sequester'd  shade. 

To  be  a  guest  with  them  ?  ~ 

4  For  thee  I  panted,  thee  I  priz'd, 
For  thee  I  gladly  sacrific'd 

Whate'ef  I  lov'd  before ; 
And  shall  I  see  thee  start  away, 
And  helpless,  hopeless,  hear  thee  say 

Farewell,  we  meet  no  more  t— cowper. 

SECTION  XIII. 

Ode  to  Adversity. 
DAUGHTER  of  Heav'n,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 


IT  U 


ClIAP.  VI. 


PROxMlSCrOLS  FIKCKS. 


233 


^Vhoso  iron  srnnri^o.  nni  toi't'nrii^  hour, 
The  had  aflright,  alllirl  thr  hest "'. 
Bound  in  thv  ad^mir^iUii'e  chain, 

¥  7 

The  proud  are  taught  to  ta^te  ol"  paWi, 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  ?rroan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitlod  and  alone. 

2  When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 
Virtue,  his  darling  child,  de^iuiiM, 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heav\:!y  hiith, 
And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
Stern  rugtjed  nurse  !  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  yet»r  she  bore. 
What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know  ; 

And  from  her  own  she  learn'd  to  melt  at  othera  wo. 

3  Scar'd  at  thy  fro\v;i  teri'ific,  fly 
Self-pleasing  folly's  idle  brood, 

Wild  laughter,  noise,  and  thoughtless  joy. 
And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  disperse  ;  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe. 
By  vain  prosperity  receiv'd, 
To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  believed 

4  Wisdom,  in  sable  gar!)  array'd, 
Immers'd  in  rapt'roas  thouyht  profound, 
And  melancholy,  si'ent  maid. 

With  leaden  eye  that  loves  the  ground, 
Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend  ; 
Warm  charity,  the  gen'ral  friend, 
With  justice,  to  herself  severe, 
And  pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly  pleasing  tear. 

5  Oh,  gently,  on  thy  suppliant's  head. 
Dread  power,  lay  thy  chast'ning  hand  ! 
Not  in  thy  gorgon  terrors  clad. 

Nor  circled  with  the  vengeful  band, 
(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen,) 
With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  miet 
With  screaming  horror's  fun'ral  cry. 
Despair,  and  fell  disease,  and  ghastly  poverty.  • 

6  Thy  form  benign,  promtiousTj-  wear. 

Thy  milder  influence  impfft ;  ^ 

Thy  philosophic  train  be  there, 
To  soften,  not  to  wound  mv  heart.     '         • 
The  gen'rous  spark  extinct  revive  ; 
Tearh  me  to  love     .nd  to  foruive  ; 

U2 


234 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  H. 


ri,     1, 


Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan ; 
What  others  are  to  feel ;  and  know  myself  a  man.— gray. 

SECTION  XIV. 

The  Creation  required  to  praise  its  Author, 

BEGIN,  my  soul,  th'  exalted  lay ! 
Let  each  enraptur'd  thought  obey. 

And  praise  th*  Almighty's  name. 
Lo !  heaven  and  earth,  and  seas,  and  skies, 
In  one  melodious  concert  rise, 

To  swell  th'  inspiring  theme. 

2  Ye  fields  of  light  celestial  plains. 
Where  gay  transporting  beauty  reigns, 

Ye  scenes  divinely  fair ! 
Your  Maker's  wondVous  power  proclaim  ; 
Tell  how  he  formed  your  shining  frame, 

And  breath'd  the  fluid  air. 

3  Ye  angels,  catch  the  thrilling  sound ! 
While  all  th'  adoring  thrones  around 

His  boundless  mercy  sing : 
Let  every  listening  saint  above 
Wake  all  th«  tuneful  soul  of  love, 

And  touch  the  sweetest  string. 

4  Join,  ye  loud  spheres,  the  vocal  choir ; 
Thou  dazzling  orb  of  liquid  fire, 

The  mighty  chorus  aid  : 
Soon  as  gray  ev'ning  gilds  the  plain. 
Thou  moon,  protract  the  melting  strain, 

And  praise  him  in  the  shade. 

5  Thou  heay'n  of  heav'ns,  his  vast  abode 
Ye  clouds,  proclaim  your  forming  God, 

Who  call'd  yoD  worlds  from  night: 
'*  Ye  shades  dispel !" — ^th'  Eternal  said ; 
At  once  th'  involving  darkness  fied, 

And  nature  sprung  to  light. 

6  Whate'er  a  blooming  world  contains, 
That  wings  the  air,  that  skims  the  plain?, 

•UnUed  praise  bestow ; 
Ye  dragons,  sound  his  awful  name  ,J : 

To  heaven  aloud ;  and  roar  acclaim,        !  ' 

Ye  swelling  deeps  below.  J,.    .^     , 

7  Let  ev'ry  element  rejoice  ;  J,j^  'v'. 
Ye  thunders  burst  with  awful  voice    ^'^-'TXi'^''' 

To  HIM  who  bids  vou  roll : 


:  II. 


Chap.  VI.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


235 


His  praise  in  softer  notes  declare, 
Each  whispering  breeze  of  yielding  air, 
And  breathe  it  to  the  soul. 

8  To  him,  ye  graceful  cedars,  bow ; 
Ye  tow'ring  mountains,  benrting  low, 

Your  great  Creator  own  ; 
Tell,  when  affrighted  nature  shook, 
How  Sinai  kindled  at  his  look. 

And  trembled  at  his  iVown. 

9  Ye  flocks  that  haunt  the  humble  vale, 
Ye  insects  flutt'ring  on  the  gale, 

In  mutual  concourse  rise; 
Crop  the  gay  rose's  vermeil  bloom. 
And  waft  its  spoils,  a  sweet  perfume, 

In  incense  to  the  skies. 

10  Wake  all  ye  mounting  tribes,  and  sing ; 
Ye  plumy  warblers  of  the  spring, 

Harmonious  anthems  raise 
To  HIM  who  shap'd  your  finer  mould, 
Who  tippM  your  glittVing  wings  with  gold, 

And  tun*d  your  voice  to  praise. 

1 1  Let  man,  by  nobler  passions  swayed. 
The  feeling  heart,  the  judging  head, 

In  heav'nly  praise  employ; 
Spread  his  tremendous  name  around, 
Till  heaven's  broad  arch  rings  back  the  sound, 

The  genVal  burst  of  joy. 

12  Ye  whom  the  charms  of  grandeur  please, 
Nurs'd  on  the  downy  lap  of  ease. 

Fall  prostrate  at  his  throne ; 
Ye  princes,  rulers,  all  adore ! 
Praise  him,  ye  kings,  who  makes  your  power 

An  image  of  his  own. 

13  Ye  fair,  by  nature  form'd  to  move, 
0  praise  th'  eternal  source  of  love. 

With  youth's  enliv'ning  fire: 
Let  age  take  up  the  tuneful  lay, 
Sigh  his  bless'd  name — then  soar  away, 

And  ask  an  angel's  lyre. — ogilvie. 

SECTTOX  XA^ 

The  Univa^r sal  Prayer.  • 

FATHER  OF  ALL  !  in  ev'ry  age, 

In  ev'ry  clime  ador'd  ! 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  I 


*3l 


i 


m 


236 


THE  ENGLISH  READER. 


f  4 

». 


2  Thou  GREAT  FIRST  CAUSE,  If.ast  understood, 

Who  all  my  sense  confiii'd, 
To  know  hut  this,  that  Thou  art  good 
And  that  myself  am  hlind  ; 

3  Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate. 

To  see  the  good  from  ill  ; 

And  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

4  What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do. 
This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That  more  than  heav'n  pursue. 
6  What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives, 

Let  me  not  cast  away  ; 
For  God  is  paid,  when  man  receives  ; 

T*  enjoy,  is  to  obey. 

6  Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 

Thy  goodness  let  me  bound. 
Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

7  Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 

Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw  ; 
And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 

8  If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  iu.jjart, 

Still  in  the  ritjht  to  stay  ; 
If  I  am  wrong,  oh  teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way  ! 

9  Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent. 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 
Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

10  Teach  me  to  feel  another's  wo  ; 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see : 

That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

11  Mean  tho'  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 

Since  quicken'd  by  thy  breath : 
0  lead  me  wheresoe'tr  I  go. 
Thro'  this  day's  life  or  death. 

12  This  day,  be  broad  and  peace  my  lot; 

All  else  beneath  the  sun. 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestow'd  or  not, 
And  let  thv  will  be  done. 


•L 


O 


Chap.  \  F.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES.  287 

13  To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 

Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies !  .*( 

One  chorus  let  all  being^s  raise ! 
All  nature's  incense  rise. — pope. 

SECTION  XTI. 

Conscience. 
O  TREACHEROUS  Conscience  !  while  she  seems  to  sleep, 
On  rose  and  myrtle,  lulPd  with  syren  song  , 
While  she  seems  nodding  o'er  her  charge,  to  drop 
On  headlong  appetite  the  slackened  rein, 
And  gives  us  up  to  license,  unrecalPd, 
Unmark'd  ; — >see,  from  hehind  her  secret  stand, 
The  sly  informer  minutes  ev'ry  fault, 
And  ber  dread  diary  with  horror  fills. 
2  Not  the  gross  act  alone  employs  her  pen 
She  reconnoitres  fancy's  airy  band, 
A  watchful  foe !  the  formidable  spy. 
Listening  o'erhears  the  whispers  of  our  camp ; 
Our  dawning  purposes  of  heart  explores. 
And  steals  our  embryos  of  iniquity. 
As  all-rapacious  usurers  conceal 
Their  doomsday-book  from  all-consuming  heirs. 
Thus,  with  indulgence  most  severe,  she  treats 
«'Ts  spendthrids  of  inestimable  time  ; 
Unnoted,  notes  each  moment  misapplied ; 
In  leaves  more  durable  than  leaves  of  brass, 
Writes  our  whole  history ;  which  death  shall  read 
In  ev'ry  pale  delinquent's  private  ear ; 
And  judgment  publish  ;  publish  to  more  worlds 
Than  this  ;  and  endless  age  in  groans  resound.— TOUNG 

SECTION  XVII. 

On  an  Infant, 
TO  the  dark  and  silent  tomb. 
Soon  I  hasten'd  from  the  womb ; 
Scarce  the  dawn  of  life  began. 
Ere  I  measur'd  out  my  span. 

2  I  no  smiling  pleasures  knew ; 
I  no  gay  delights  could  view : 
Joyles  J  sojourner  was  I, 
Only  bom  to  weep  and  die. 

3  Hap])y  infant,  early  bless'd !  . 
Rest,  in  peaceful  slumber,  rest;                 ..^ 
E?rly  rescu'd  from  the  cares, 
W  hich  increase  with  growing  years. 


238  THE  ENGLISH  HEADER.         Taut  H. 

4  No  delights  are  worth  thy  stay, 
Smiling  as  they  seem,  and  gay  ; 
Short  and  sicicly  are  they  all, 
Hardly  tasted  ere  they  pall. 

5  All  our  gaiety  is  vain, 

All  our  laughter  is  hut  pain  ; 
Lasting  only,  and  divine, 
Is  an  innocence  like  thine. 

SECTION  XVIH. 

The  Cuckoo, 
HAIL,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  wood| 

Attendant  on  the  spring! 
Now  heav*n  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

2  Soon  as  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear: 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 
Or  mark  the  rolling  year? 

3  Delightful  visitant!   with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowVs, 
When  heaven  is  filled  with  music  sweet, 
Of  birds  among  the  bowr*s. 

4  The  school-boy,  wand'ring  in  the  wood, 

To  pull  the  flow'rf  so  gay, 
Starts,  thy  curious  voice  to  hear, 
And  imitates  thy  lay. 

5  Soon  as  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fly'st  the  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest,  in  other  lands. 
Another  spring  to  hail.  / 

6  Sweet  bird !  thy  bow'r  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song. 
No  winter  in  thy  year! 

7  O  could  I  fly,  Vd  fly  with  thee; 

We^d  make,with  social  wing, 
Our  annual  visits  o'er  the  globe, 
Companions  of  the  spring. — logan. 

SECTION  XIX.      ->"^ 
Day*     A  Pastoral  in  three  parts.— -—MORNING. 
IN  the  barn  the  tenant  cock, 

Close  to  Partlet  perch'd  on  high,  - 

Briskly  crows,  (the  shepherd's  clock !)  - 

^  Jocund  that  the  morning's  nigh.       .  '  \^y 


CuAF.  VI.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


239 


2  Swiflly  from  the  mountain's  brow 

Shadows,  nurs*d  by  night,  retire ; 
And  the  peeping  sun-beam,  now 
Paints  with  gold  the  village  spire. 

3  Philomel  forsakes  the  thorn, 

Plaintive  where  she  prates  at  night ; 
And  the  lark  to  meet  the  morn. 
Soars  beyond  the  shepherd's  sight. 

4  From  the  low-roof 'd  cottage  ridge, 

See  the  chattVing  swallow  spring ; 
Darting  through  the  one-arch'd  bridge 
Quick  she  dips  her  dappled  wing, 

5  Now  the  pine-tree's  waving  top 

Gently  greets  the  morning  gale  ; 
Kidlings  now  begin  to  crop 
Daisies,  on  the  dewy  dale. 

6  From  the  balmy  sweets,  uncloyM, 

(Restless  till  her  task  be  done,) 
Now  the  busy  bee's  employ'd, 
Sipping  dew  before  the  sun. 

7  Trickling  through  the  crevicM  rock, 

Where  the  limpid  stream  distils. 
Sweet  refreshment  waits  the  flock, 
When  'tis  sun-drove  from  the  hills. 

8  Colin's  for  the  promised  corn 

(Ere  the  harvest  hopes  arc  ripe,) 

Anxious; — whilst  the  huntsman's  horn, 

Boldly  sounding,  drowns  his  pipe. 

9  Sweet — O  sweet,  the  warbling  throng, 

On  the  white  emblossorn'd  spray ! 
Nature's  universal  song 
Echoes  to  the  rising  day. 

NOON. 

10  Fervid  .on  the  glitt'ring  flood. 

Now  the  noontide  i  adiance  glows : 
Drooping  o'er  its  infant  bud. 
Not  a  dew-drop's  left  the  rose. 

11  By  the  brook  tlM  shepherd  dines, 

From  the  fierce  meridian  heat, 
■J  Sheher'd  by  the  brafiching  pines, 
Pendaid  o'er  Iva  grassj  seat. 

12  Now  the  flock  foi'^^akes  the  ubde, 

Where,  uncheck'd,  riie  sun  ben m.-^  fall, 
Surt'  to  find  a  p]e>:-!ug  shade 
By  the  iA''d  abL)ey  wall. 


Ml 


'I 

i 


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Part  II. 


13  Echo,  in  her  airy  round,  *    ' 

O'er  the  river,  rock,  and  hill,   ;^ 
Cannot  catch  a  single  sound. 
Save  the  clack  of  yonder  mill. 

14  Cattle  court  the  zephyrs  bland. 

Where  the  streamlet  wanders  cool ; 
Or  with  languid  silence  stand 
Midway  in  the  marshy  pool. 

15  But  from  mountain,  dell,  or  stream, 

Not  a  fluttering  zephyr  springs ; 
Fearful  lest  the  noontide  beam. 
Scorch  its  soft,  its  silken  wings. 
"iS  Not  a  leaf  has  leave  to  stir; 

Nature's  luU'd — serene — and  still ! 
Quiet  e*en  the  shepherd's  cur. 
Sleeping  on  the  heath-clad  hill. 

17  Languid  is  the  landscape  round. 

Till  the  fresh  descending  show'r, 
Grateful  to  the  thirsty  ground, 
Raises  ev'ry  fainting  flow'r. 

18  Now  the  hill — ^the  hedge — are  green, 

Now  the  warbler's  throat's  in  tune ; 
Blithsonie  is  the  verdant  scene, 
Brighten'd  by  the  beams  of  Nqon ! 

EVENING. 

19  O'er  the  heath  the  heifer  strays 

Free  ;  (the  furrow'd  task  is  done;) 
Now  the  village  windows  blaze, 
Burnish'd  by  the  setting  sun. 

20  Now  he  sets  behind  the  iiill, 

Sinking  from  a  golden  sky : 
Can  the  pencil's  mimic  skill 
Copy  the  refulgent  dye? 

21  Trudging  as  the  ploughmen  go, 

(To  the  smoking  hamlet  bouuu,) 
Giant-like  their  shadows  grow, 
Lengthen'd  o'er  the  level  ground, 

22  Where  the  rising  forest  spreaus 

Shelter  for  the  lordly  dome ; 
To  their  high-built  airy  beds, 
See  the  rooks  returning  hoiiie  ! 

23  As  the  lark,  with  vary'd  tune, 

Carols  to  the  ev'ning  loud  ; 
Mark  the  mild  resplendent  moon, 
Breaking  through  a  parted  cloud. 


•:-.'J' 


efi^; 


* 


Part  II. 


H 


Caiip.  VI.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 

24  Now  the  hermit  owlet  peeps, 

From  the  barn  or  twisted  brake ; 
And  the  blue  mist  slowly  creeps, 
Curling  on  the  silver  lake. 

25  As  the  trout  in  speckled  pride, 

Playful  from  its  bosom  springs ; 
To  the  banks  a  ruffled  tide, 
Yei^es  in  successive  rings. 

26  Tripping  through  the  silken  grass, 

0*er  3ie  path-divided  dale, 
Mark  the  rose-complexion'd  lass. 
With  her  well-pois'd  milking  pail ' 

27  Linnets  with  unnumberM  notes. 

And  the  cuckoo  bird  with  two. 
Tuning  sweet  their  mellow  throats, 

Bid  the  setting  sun  adieu. — Cunningham. 

SECTION  XX. 

The  Order  of  JVature, 

See,  thro'  this  air,  this  ocean,  and  this  earth, 
All  matter  quick,  and  bursting  into  birth. 
Above,  how  high  progressive  life  may  go ! 
Aroun*:!,  how  wide!  how  deep  extend  below; 
Vast  chain  of  being!  which  from  God  began, 
Nature  ethereal,  human;  angel,  man; 
Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect,  what  no  eye  can  see, 
No  gl^s  can  reach ;  from  infinite  to  thee, 
From  thee  to  nothing. — On  superior  powers 
Were  we  to  press,  inferior  might  on  ours  ; 
Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void. 
Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  destroyed : 
From  nature's  chain  whatever  link  you  strike, 
Tenth  or  ten  thousandth,  breaks  the  chain  alike. 

2  And,  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll. 
Alike  essential  to  the  amazing  whole. 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only,  but  the  whole  must  fall. 
Let  earth,  unbalanc'd  from  her  orbit  fly. 
Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  thro'  the  sky ; 
Let  rulmg  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurl'd. 
Being  on  being  wreck'd,  and  world  on  world  ; 
Heav'n's  whole  foundations  to  their  centre  nod, 
And  nature  trembles  to  the  throne  of  God. 

i    All  this  dread  order  break — for  whom  ?  for  thee  t 
Tile  worm !  Oh  madness !  pride !  impiety ! 

X 


241 


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Part  tJ. 


,1  ; 


3  What  if  the  foot  ordain'd  the  dust  to  tread, 
Or  hand  to  toil,  aspir'd  to  be  the  head  ? 
What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repin'd 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind  ? 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 

To  be  another,  in  this  gen'ral  frame  * 
Just  as  absurd,  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains. 
The  Great  directing  mind  of  all  ordains. 

4  All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul : 
That,  changed  thro'  aU,  and  yet  in  all  the  same, 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  th'  ethereal  frame ; 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees ; 
Lives  thro'  all  life,  extends  thro'  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent ; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part. 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart ; 

As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns. 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  burns  : 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small ; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all. 
9  Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name : 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point :  this  kind,  this  due  degr^t 
Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heaven  bestows  on  tt  h^, 
Submit. — In  this,  or  any  other  sphere, 
Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear : 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Pow'r, 
Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknow  n  to  thee ; 
All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see ;: 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood  ; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good  ; 
And,  spite  of  Pride,  in  erring  Reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear — ^whatever  is,  is  right. —  '^v/ 

SECTION  XXI. 

Confidence  in  Divine  protection* 

How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord ! 

How  sure  is  their  defence ! 
eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  omnipotence. 
3  In  foreign  realms,  and  lands  remote, 
i.  Supported  by  thy  care, 


artU. 


Chap.  VL        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES.     * 


24i 


,' .;.  >• 


Through  burning  climes  I  paasM  unhurt^ 
And  breathM  in  tainted  air. 

3  Thy  mercy  svveeten'd  ev*ry  soil, 

Made  ev*ry  region  please  ; 
The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warm'd. 
And  smoothed  the  Tyrrhene  seas- 

4  Think,  O  my  soul,  devoutly  think, 

How,  with  affrighted  eyes, 
Thou  saw'st  the  wide  extended  deep 
In  all  its  horrors  rise ! 

5  Confusion  dwelt  in  ev'ry  face, 

And  fear  in  ev'ry  heart. 
When  waves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  in  gul&| 
Overcame  the  pilot's  art. 

6  V  then,  from  all  my  griefs,  O  Lord! 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free  ; 
While  in  the  confidence  of  pray'r. 
My  soul  took  hold  on  thee. 

7  For  tho'  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 

High  on  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 
Nor  impotent  to  save. 

8  The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired. 

Obedient  to  thy  will ; 
The  sea  tliat  roar'd  at  thy  command. 
At  thy  command  was  still. 

9  In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  deaths, 

Thy  gooclness  PU  adore ; 
And  praise  thee  for  thy  mercies  past, 

And  humbly  hope  for  more. 
10  My  life,  if  thou  preserve  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be ; 
And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom. 

Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee. — addison. 

SECTION  XXII. 

Hymn  on  a  Review  of  the  Seasons, 

THESE,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father!  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  spring 
Thy  beauty  walks.  Thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields;  the  soft'ningair  is  balm;  ' ' 
Echo  the  mountains  round ;  the  forest  smiles, 
And  ev'ry  sense,  and  ev*ry  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  Thy  glory  in  the  summer  monthi) 


244 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  H. 


■.' 


With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  Thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year; 
And  oft  Thy  voice  in  dr^dful  thunder  speaks ; 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow- whisp*ring  gales 
y         5  Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  unconfin'd, 

And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter,  awful  Thou!  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolPd, 
Majestic  darkness !  On  the  whtrlwind's  wing,     . 
Riding  sublime,  Thou  bidst  the  world  adore ; 
And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 

4  Mysterious  round !  what  skill,  what  force  divine. 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear!  a  simple  train, 
Yet  so  (telightful  mix'd,  with  such  kind  art, 
Nuch  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 
Shade,  unperceiv'd,  so  soft'ning  into  shade, 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole, 
That  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 

5  But  wand'ring  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres; 

^  Works  in  the  secret  deep  ;  shoots,  steaming,  thence 

The  fair  profusion  that  overspreads  the  spring; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day ; 
Feeds  ev'ry  creature  ;  hurls  the  tempest  forth  ; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves. 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

6  Nature,  attend  !  join  ev'ry  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  join !  and,  ardent  raise 
One  general  song! 

I  Ye,  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles, 

At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all, 
Crown  the  great  hymn ! 

7  For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 
Whether  the  blossom  blows ;  the  summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain;  inspiring  autumn  gleams; 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  black'ning  east ; 
Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no  more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat! 

8  Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barb'rous  climes, 
Rivers  unknown  to  song  ;  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 


^ 


^ 


Chap.  TI.       PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


m 


Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles  ;  'tis  nought  to  me^      ^^ 

Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt,    y 

In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 

And  where  he  vital  ifreathes  there  must  be  joy.     r 

When  e'en  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come, 

And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 

I,  cheerful,  will  obey ;  there,  with  new  pow'rs. 

Will  rising  wonders  sing:  I  cannot  go 

Where  universal  love  not  smiles  around, 

Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns  : 

From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 

And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 

In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 

Myself  in  him,  in  light  ineffable ! 

Come,  then,  expressive  silence,  muse  his  praise. 

THOMSON. 

SECTION  XXIII. 

On  Solitude. 

O  SOLITUDE,  romantic  maid ! 

Whether  by  nodding  towers  you  tread,  '  " 

Or  haunt  the  desert's  trackless  gloom, 

Or  hover  o'er  the  yawning  tomb, 

Or  climb  the  Andes'  clifted  side. 

Or  by  the  Nile's  coy  source  abide. 

Or,  starting  from  your  half-year's  sleep., 

From  Hecla  view  the  thawing  deep,  * 

Or,  at  the  purple  dawn  of  day, 

Tadmor's  marble  waste  survey ;  '  ^ 

You,  recluse,  again  1  woo. 

And  again  your  steps  pursue. 
2  Plum'd  conceit  himself  surveying, 
Folly  with  her  shadow  playing, 
Purse-proud  elbowing  insolence. 
Bloated  empiric,  puflf'd  pretence. 
Noise  that  through  a  trumpet  speaks, 
Laughter  in  loud  peals  that  breaks, 
Intrusion,  with  a  fopling's  face, 
(Ignorant  of  time  and  place,) 
Sparks  of  fire  dissension  blowing, 
Ductile,  court-bred  flattery  bowing. 
Restraint's  stiff  neck,  grimace's  leer, 
Squint-ey'd  censure's  artful  sneer, 
Ambition's  buskins,  steep'd  in  bloo([); 
Fly  thy  presence,  Solitude !  '^v  ■  <  Vf,  - 

■X2 


"*i' 


XK  *. 


U9 


q^HE  ENGLISH  READER. 


Part  II 


/,/ 


d  Sage  reflection,  bent  with  years , 
Conscious  virtue,  void  of  fears, 
Muffled  silence,  wood-nymph  shy, 
Meditation's  piercing  eye, 
Halcyon  peace  on  moss  reclin'd, 
Retrospect  that  scans  the  mind, 
Rapt  earth-gazing  revery, 
Blushing  artless  modesty. 
Health  that  snuffs  the  morning  au, 
FuU-eyM  truth  with  bosom  bare, 
Inspiration,  nature's  child, 
Seek  the  solitary  wild. 
4  When  all  nature's  hush'd  asleep, 
Nor  love,  nor  guilt,  their  vigils  keep, 
Soft  you  leave  your  cavern'd  den, 
And  wander  o'er  the  works  of  men  ; 
But  when  Phosphor  brings  the  dawn, 
By  her  dappled  coursers  drawn, 
Again  you  to  your  wild  retreat. 
And  the  early  huntsman  meet, 
Where,  as  you  pensive  pass  along. 
You  catch  the  distant  shepherd's  song. 
Or  brush  from  herbs  the  pearly  dew, 
Or  the  rising  primrose  view. 
Devotion  lends  her  heav'n  plum'd  wings, 
Tou  mount,  and  nature  with  you  sings. 
1$  But  when  the  mid-day  fervours  glow. 
To  upland  airy  shades  you  go, 
Where  never  sun-burnt  woodman  came. 
Nor  sportsman  chas'd  the  timid  game ; 
And  there,  beneath  an  oak  reclin'd, 
With  drowsy  waterfalls  behind, 
Tou  sink  to  rest. 
Till  the  tuneful  bird  of  night, 
From  the  neighb'ring  poplar's  height, 
^  Wake  you  with  her  solemn  strain, 
/  And  teach  pleas'd  echo  to  complain. 
6.  With  you  roses  brighter  bloom,  . 
Sweeter  ev'ry  sweet  perfume  ; 
Purer  ev^ty  fountain  flows. 
Stronger  ev'ry  wilding  grows. 
Let  those  toil  for  gold  who  please, 
Or  for  fame  renounce  their  ease.  ;. 

What  is  fame?  An  empty  bubble  j 
0i>ld  ?  A  shining,  constant  trouble. 


'•4 


Ciur.  VI.        PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


947 


Let  them  for  thtfir  country  bleed ! 
What  was  Sidney's,  Raleigh's  meed  ? 
Man's  not  worth  a  moment's  pain ; 
Base,  ungrateful,  fickle,  vain.   * 

7  Then  let  me,  sequester'd  fair, 
To  your  sybil  grot  repair; 
On  yon  hanging  cliff  it  stands, 
Scoop'd  by  nature's  plastic  hands, 
BoBom'd  in  the  gloomy  shade 
Of  cypress  not  with  age  decayed  \ 
Where  the  owl  still  hooting  sits, 
Where  the  bat  incessant  flits ; 
There  in  loftier  strains  PU  sing 
Whence  the  changing  seasons  spring; 
Tell  how  storms  deform  the  skies. 
Whence  the  waves  subside  and  rise, 
Trace  the  comet's  blazing  tail, 
Weigh  the  planets  in  a  scale  ; 
Bend,  great  God,  before  thy  shrine ; 
The  boumless  macrocosm's  thine. 

8  Since  in  each  scheme  of  life  I've  fail'd. 
And  disappointment  seems  entail'd ; 
Since  all  on  earth  I  valu'd  most, 

My  guide,  my  stay,  my  friend  is  lost ; 
O  Solitude,  now  give  me  rest. 
And  hush  the  tempest  in  my  breast. 

0  gently  deign  to  guide  my  feet 
To  your  hermit^trodden  seat; 
Where  I  may  live  at  last  my  own, 
Where  I  at  last  may  die  unknown. 

1  spoke ;  she  turn'd  her  magic  ray ; 
And  thus  she  said,  or  seem'd  to  say; 

Youth,  you're  mistaken,  if  you  think  to  find 
In  shades,  a  med'cine  for  a  troubled  mind  : 
Wan  grief  will  haunt  you  whereso'er  you  go. 
Sigh  in  the  breeze,  and  in  the  streamlet  flow. 
There  pale  inaction  pines  his  life  away  ; 
And  satiate  mourns  the  quick  return  of  day : 
There,  naked  frenzy  laughing  wild  with  pain. 
Or  bares  the  blade,  or  plunges  in  the  main : 
There  superstition  broods  o'er  all  lier  fears^ 
And  yells  of  demons  in  the  zephyr  hears. 
But  if  a  hermit  you're  resolv'd  to  dwell, 
And  bid  to  social  life  a  last  farewell; 
Tis  Impious.  ■ 


■  .1* 


248 


THE  ENGLISH  READER.        Part  Tl. 


10  God  never  made  an  independent  man; 
'Twould  jar  the  concord  of  his  general  plan. 
See  evVy  part  of  that  stupendous  whole, 
"  Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul ;" 
To  one  great  end,  the  general  good,  conspire. 
From  matter,  brute,  to  man,  to  seraph,  fire. 
Should  man  throut^h  nature  solitary  roam,* 
His  will  his  sovereign,  every  wliere  his  home, 
What  force  would  guard  him  from  the  lion's  jaw  ? 
What  swiftness  wing  him  from  the  panther's  paw? 
Or,  should  fate  lead  him  to  some  safer  shore. 
Where  panthers  never  prowl,  nor  lions  roar. 
Where  liberal  nature  all  her  charms  bestows. 
Suns  shine,  birds  sing,  flowers  bloom,  and  water  flows  ; 
Fool,  dost  thou  think  he'd  revel  on  the  store,        ,j    l 
Absolve  the  care  of  «ieav'n,  nor  ask  for  more? 
Though  waters  flow'd,  flow'rs  bloom'd,  and  Phcebus  shon^: 
He'd  sigh,  he'd  murmur,  that  he  was  alone. 

For  know,  the  Maker  on  the  human  breast,        '     *  / 
A  sense  of  kindred,  country,  man,  impress'd. 

11  Though  nature's  works  the  ruling  mind  declare, 
And  well  deserve  inquiry's  serious  care,         „»;f;  ; 
The  God,  (whate'er  misanthrophy  may  say,)  ..  , 
Shines,  beams  in  man  with  most  unclouded  ray. 
What  boots  it  tnee  to  fly  from  pole  to  pole?    ;.r|    ^  , 
Hang  o'er  the  sun,  and  with  the  planets  roll  ? 

What  boots  through  space's  farthest  bourns  to  roam  ? 
If  thou,  O  man,  a  stranger  art  at  home. 
Then  know  thyself,  the  human  mind  survey  ', 
The  use,  the  pleasure,  will  the  toil  repay.      ^ 

12  Nor  study  only,  practice  what  you  know;       ->i 
Your  life,  your  knowledge,  to  mankind  you  owe. 
With  Plato's  olive  wreath  the  bays  entwine;  uy 
Those  who  in  study,  should  in  practice  shine. 
Say,  does  the  learn'd  lord  of  Hagley's  shade, 
Charm  man  so  much  by  mossy  fountains  laid, 
As  when  arous'd,  he  stems  corruption's  course, 
And  shakes  the  senate  with  a  Tully's  force? 
When  freedom  gasp'd  beneath  a  Caesar's  feet, 

-  Then  public  virtue  might  to  shades  retreat :  < ; 
But  where  she  breathes,  the  least  may  useful  be. 
And  freedom,  Britain,  still  belongs  to  thee.      c  . 

13  Though  man's  ungrateful,  or  though  fortune  frown ;'^ 
Is  the  reward  of  Mrorth  asonsf,  or  crown? 


■■'A 


u'>- 


»i1 


cA 


'LUi'A  Jri 


:'T 


Chap.  VI. 


PROMISCUOUS  PIECES. 


249 


Nor  yet  unrecompens'd  are  virtue's  pains ; 
Good  Allen  lives,  and  bounteous  Brunswick  reigns. 
On  each  condition  disappointments  wait, 
Enter  the  hut,  and  force  the  guarded  gate 
Nor  dare  repine,  though  early  friendship  bleed, 
From  love,  the  world,  and  all  its  cares,  he's  freed. 
But  know,  adversity's  the  child  of  God : 
Whom  Heaven  approves  of  most,  must  feel  her  rod. 
When  smooth  old  Ocean,  and  each  storm's  asleep, 
Then  ignorance  may  plough  the  watery  deep ; 
But  when  the  demons  of  the  tempest  rave. 
Skill  must  conduct  the  vessel  through  the  wave. 
14  Sidney,  what  good  man  envies  not  thy  blow  ? 
Who  would  not  wish  Anytus* — for  a  foe? 
Intrepid  virtue  triumphs  over  fate ; 
The  good  can  never  be  unfortunate. 
And  be  this  maxim  graven  in  thy  i  lind ; 
The  height  of  virtue  is,  to  serve  mankind. 
But  when  old  age  has  silver'd  o'er  thy  head, 
When  memory  fails,  and  all  thy  vigour's  fled, 
Then  mayst  thou  seek  the  stillness  of  retreat, 
Then  hear  aloof  the  human  tempest  beat; 
Then  will  I  greet  thee  to  my  woodland  cave, 
Allay  the  pangs  of  age,  and  smooth  thy  grave. 

GRAINOIR, 

*  One  of  the  accusers  of  Socrates. 


'■  ■.   A. 

a/i. 


<i»i>srvi3i£rv3« 


PARTI. 

PIECES  IN  PROSE. 


4k:ct. 
1. 

2. 
3. 
4. 

6. 
7. 


i. 

2. 

a. 
4. 

a. 

8. 

0. 
iO. 
H. 
12. 
J  3. 
14. 
15. 

1. 
*» 

3 

r». 

0. 

1. 


6. 

7. 

R. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 

1. 

*? 


CHAPTER  I.  Pag9. 

Select  Sentences  and  Paragraphs,       .        ;        .        13 

CHA.'TER  II.— J^arrative  Pieces. 
No  rank  or  posseBsions  can  make  the  guilty  mind  happy, 
Chaoi^e  of  external  condition  oftvn  adverse  to  virtue, 
Hainan,  or  tlie  misery  of  pride,      .... 

Latiy  Jane  Gray .        . 

Urtogrul .  or  the  vanity  af  riches, 

The  hill  of  science,        ...  .        « 

The  journey  of  a  day;  a  picture  of  human  life, 

CHAPTER  III— Didactic  Pieces. 

The  imnnrtance  of  a  good  education, 

On  gratitude,  ........ 

Oil  for^ivencs8,        ....... 

Motive!)  to  the  practice  of  gentleness, 

\  stispicioiiii  temper  the  source  of  misery  to  its  possessor, 

Comforts  of  religion, 

Diffidence  of  our  abilities  a  mark  of  wisdom,  . 
On  (Ito  importance  of  order  in  the  distribution  of  our  lime, 
riie  dignity  of  virtue  amidst  corrupt  exampleii, 
Ihe  iitortitications  of  vice  greater  than  those  of  virtue, 
On  cootentment,  ...... 

Rank  and  riches  afford  no  ground  for  envy,    . 

I'aticiice  under  provocations  our  interest  as  well  as  duty, 

Aiodcraiion  in  our  wishes  rtcoiii mended. 

Omniscience  and  omnipvesence  of  the  Deity,  source  of  consolation,  62 

CH  A  PTER  I y.— Argumentative  Pieces. 
Happiiief?s  is  founded  in  rectitude  of  conduct, 

Virtue  m.m's  highest  interest, 

The  iiijuslicfi  of  an  imcliarital>le  spirit,     .... 
ThH  loisfoiiutios  of  men  inu»tly  chargeable  on  themselves, 

Oil  •^i^ interested  friemJship, 

On  the  immoitalitv  of  the  soul, 

CH  Al'TSR  v.— Descriptive  Pieces. 

The  seasons, 76 

Tiie  cataract  of  Niagara,  in  Canada,  North  America,  -  .  77 
Grotto  of  Antiparos,  -----.--78 
The  £;rotio  of  Aiitiparos  continued,  -  -  .  ,  -  7^ 
Eartlujiiake  at  Calanea,  ---.---80 

Creation, ---81 

Charity, •----.82 

Prosperity  is  redoubled  to  a  good  man,  -  •  -  '  -^  83 
On  the  brtaoties  of  the  Psalms  -.«....  34 
Charavier  of  Alfred,  king  of  England,  -  -  ...  85 
Character  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  .--.'..  86 
On  the  slavery  of  vice,  -  -  .--...87 
The  man  of  integrity,    -----...8* 


23 

Sd 

30 
31 
94 
3« 
39 

43 

44 
45 

4G 
47 
4ft 
49 
CO 
61 
5^ 
64 
67 
58 
60 


65 
16. 
67 
68 
70 
73 


Gentleness, 

CHAPTER  Vl.^Pathetic  Pieeu. 

Trial  and  execution  of  the  earl  of  Strafford,  . 
An  eminent  instance  of  true  fortitude  of  niind, 
T  e  gooti  man's  comfort  in  aflUetion, 


9i 

93 
94 


2a 

8» 
30 
SI 
94 
3« 
39 

4S 
44 
45 
4G 
47 
48 
49 
60 
61 
63 
54 
6? 
58 
60 


65 
lb. 
67 
68 
70 
13 

76 
77 
78 
Td 
80 
81 
82 
83 
84 
85 
88 
87 
8i 
t» 

92 
93 
94 


C0NT£NTtf.  25] 

4   Tb«c}oMoflife, 95 

6.  Exalted  society  and  the  rflnewal  of  virtuous  connexions,  dtc.  .  97 

6.  The  clemency  ami  amiable  churactei  of  the  puiriarch  Joseph,  9H 

7.  Altamont ^ 100 

CHAFTKR  Wh— Dialogues. 

1.  Democritut  and  Heraclitus, IM 

S.  Diouysius,  Fythiaa,  and  Damon, 104 

3.  Locke  and  Giayle, 106 

CTHAPTER  WW.— Public  Sptechcs. 

1.  Cicero  against  Verres, Ill 

3w  Speech  of  Adherbal  to  the  Roman  Senate,  imploiine  protection,  114 

3.  The  Apostle  I'aurs  noble  defence  before  Festus  unrT  Agrippu,.  117 

4.  Lord  Mansfield's  speech  in  the  Hou!<e  of  Lords,  1770,  on  ttie  bill 

for  preventing  the  delays  of  justice,  «i:,c llf> 

5.  An  Address  to  young  persons, ]i3 

CHArr»<:R  \^.—Prmniscuous  Pines. 

1.  Earthquake  at  Calabria,  in  the  year  1538,        ....  12S 

2.  Letter  from  I'liny  to  Geminius, 129 

3.  Letter  from  Pliny  to  Marcellinus,  on  the  death  of  an  amiable 

young  woman, 130 

4.  On  Discretion, 131 

5.  On  the  government  of  our  thoughts, lf)3 

6.  On  the  evils  which  flow  frnm  unrestrained  pr.ssion, .                 .  135 

7.  On  the  proper  srate  of  our  temper,  with  respect  to  one  another,  136 

8.  Excellence  of  the  Holy  Scriptures 138 

9.  Reflections  occasioned  by  a  review  of  the  blessin<;s  oronounced 

by  Christ,  on  his  disciples,  in  his  sermon  on  the  mount,        .  139 

'10.  Schemesof  life  often  illusory, J  40 

II.  The  pleasures  of  Virtuous  sensibility, 142 

IS.  On  the  true  honour  of  man, 144 

13.  The  influence  of  devotion  on  the  happiness  of  life, .  !4r 

14   The  planetary  and  terrestrial  worlds  comparatively  considered,  147 

15.  On  the  power  of  custom,  and  the  uses  to  which  it  "uiv  be  afi|il>ed  149 

16.  The  pleasure  resulting  from  a  proper  use  of  our  faculties,  l.'>0 

17.  Description  of  Candour, .  151 
18    On  the  imperfection  of  that  happiness  which  rests  solely  on 

wotldly  pleasures, ...                         .        .        '        .  152 

19.  What  are  the  real  and  solid  enjoyments  of  human  life,    -        •  155 

20   Scale  of  beings, 157 

81    Trust  in  the  care  of  Providence  recommended,        .        a        .  159 

22.  Piety  and  gratitude  enliven  prosperity,  -          ....  161 

23.  Virtue,  deeply  rooted,  is  not  subject  to  the  influence  of  fortune,  163 

24.  The  speech  of  Fabricius,  to  kmg  tVrrhus,  who  attempted  to 

bribe  him  to  his  interests,  by  the  offer  of  a  large  sum  of  money,  164 

25.  Character  of  James  i.  king  of  England, 165 

26.  Charles  V  Emp.  of  Germany,  resigns  bis  dominions,  Slc.        •  166 

27.  The  saii<e  subject  continued, 168 

WegggF— ^— ^^gi— — i— M^— ■  I BOB 

PATIT II.  ^ 

PIECES  IN  POETRY,  ^^  C^ 

CHAPTER  I.    Seltct  Sentences  and  Paragraphs. 

I.  Short  and  envf  sentences, Mi 

9l  Verses  in  which  the  lines  are  of  diflerent  length,    -        •        -  173 

3.  Versee  containing  exclamations,  interrogations,  parentheses,  Slc.  1 74 

4.  Verses  in  various  forms, 176 

5.  Verses  in  which  sound  corresponds  to  signification,         -       •  1  ^ 
9,  Connubial  Aflfeetion, 180 

CHAPTER  II.— ^orrciive  Pkees. 

1.  The  bears  and  the  bear,  ,            - 182 


mmmmmm 


842 


9. 

3. 
4. 

5. 
& 

1. 
3. 

3. 

4. 

6. 

6. 

7. 

8. 

9. 
10. 
11. 

1. 

S. 
3. 
4. 
5. 
6. 
7. 
8. 
9. 

1. 

2. 
3. 

4. 
6. 
6. 
7. 
B. 

1. 

2. 

3. 

4. 

5. 

6 

7. 

8. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 
15. 
16. 
17. 
18. 
19. 
SO. 
21. 
SS. 
83. 


CONTINTS. 

Thi  nishtinuto  and  lb«  £low>wormt               •  182 

Tht  trtali  of  virtue, lB:i 

The  youth  and  the  philofopher.     •        •        •        -        -        •  18.'> 
Discourie  between  Ada^|pi)d  Eve  retiriog  to  rest,  •                -186 

Religinu  and  death,        •. ]y9 

CHAPTER  Ul'-Didactic  Pieces. 

The  vanity  of  wealth, 191 

Nothhig  formed  in  vain, ......                .  192 

On  pride,       ---.•••                 ..  it. 

Cruelty  to  brutes  censured, 103 

A  paraphrase  on  the  latter  part  of  the  6th  chapter  of  Matthew,  194 

Toe  death  af  a  good  man  a  strong  incentive  to  virtue,     .        .  195 

Reflections  on  the  future  state,  from  a  review  of  winter, .        .  ik. 

Adam*8  advice  to  Eve,  to  avoid  temptation,     ....  197 

On  procrastination,         .........  16. 

That  philosophy  which  stops  at  secondary  causes,  reproved,  .  199 

Indignant  sentiments  on  national  prsjudice,  slavery,  (Lc.        .  200 

CHAPTER  IV.— Descriptive  Piece$. 

The  morning  in  summer, S^l 

Rural  sounds,  as  well  as  rural  sights,  delightful,                      .  2t)2 

The  Rose, ih. 

Care  of  birds  for  thoir  young, .                .        .        .  203 

Liberty  and  slavery  contrasted, ih. 

Charity.  A  paraphrase  on  the  13th  chap,  to  the  Corinthians,  .  204 

Picture  of  a  good  man, 20U 

The  pleasures  of  retirement, 207 

The  pleasures  and  benefit  dfan  improved  imagination,  .        .  208 

CHAPTER  Y. -Pathetic  Pieces. 

The  Hermit, 210 

The  Beggar*s  Petition,    ....                ...  211 

t'Tnhappy  close  of  life,     ....                ...  212 

Elegy  to  Pity, ...  213 

Verses  by  Alex.  Selkirk,  in  the  island  of  Juan  Fernandez,      .  t6. 

Gratitude, 215 

A  man  perishing  in  the  snow,  with  reflections,  dtc.  &,c.    .        .216 

A  morning  hymn, 218 

CHAPTER  VI.— PromwcMoiM  Pieces. 

Ode  to  Content, 219 

The  Shepherd  and  the  Philosopher, 221 

The  road  to  happiness  open  to  all  men,  .  '     .        .        .        .  222 

The  goodness  of  Providence, 223 

The  Creator*8  works  attest  his  greatness, .  •      .        .        .        .  224 

Address  to  the  Deity, -  225 

Tho  pursuit  of  happiness  often  ill-directed,      •        .        .        .  226 

The  fire-sido, 227 

Providence  vindioated  in  the  present  state  of  mem,  •        •        •  229 

.Selfishness  reproved, 230 

HuiVian  frailty, •  -  231 

Ode  to  peace, 232 

Ode  to  adversity, ib. 

The  creation  required  to  praise  its  Author,     -        •        .        -  234 

The  universal  prayer, --  235 

Conscience, 237 

On  an  infant,  .----.-----ti. 

The  Cuckoo,         -        -        -        - 238 

Day.    A  pastoral,  in  tbree  parts,   •       •       -       •       •       •  <6. 

The  order  of  nature, 2fl 

Confidence  in  Divine  protection,    ------  242 

Hymn  on  a  review  of  the  Seasons,  -       -        •       -       -       ^  243 

QnSo)iiudt» 346 


182 
18:} 
185 
186 

189 

191 
192 

ib. 
193 
194 
195 

ih. 
197 

ib. 
199 
200 

201 

21)2 
ih. 
203 
.  ib. 
204 
20t> 
207 
208 

211) 
211 
212 
213 
t6. 
215 
21C 
218 

919 
221 
222 
223 
224 
225 
226 
227 
229 
230 
231 
232 

ib. 
234 
235 
237 

ib. 
238 

ib. 
2^ 
242 
S4S 
345 


'!*■': 


